


Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart

by rawrkinjd



Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Canon Temporary Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Musical Eskel, Polyamory, Post-Canon Fix-It, Slow Burn, The Witcher 1 Spoilers, The Witcher Book Spoilers, The Witcher Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 34
Words: 102,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23510845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rawrkinjd/pseuds/rawrkinjd
Summary: Jaskier spends several years healing after Geralt turns him away on the mountainside, and his fragile heart isfinallypiecing itself back together. He keeps returning to Posada every year for reasons unknown even to him, but everything's fine. Who needs Geralt, right?  The betrayal will fade eventually. The feelings too.The bitter, raw feelings...And then he runs into another Witcher in the same damn tavern. He evenlookslike Geralt. But instead of a walking bulwark of brooding silence, he meets a man with an open smile, kind eyes and a laugh that warms his very soul. Another few chance meetings and Jaskier finds himself inextricably drawn into Eskel's orbit. I mean, they have so much in common, including a deep, relentless yearning for a tall, brooding Witcher with hair the colour of moonlight.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel/Lambert/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Piece Me Back Together, Dear Heart [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1717648
Comments: 2559
Kudos: 2508
Collections: Geralt is Sorry, Jaskier or Geralt/others (with or w/out eachother), Just.... So cute...





	1. Coming Undone

* * *

_1263: The Mountain_

That… didn’t go well. Jaskier gazed at Geralt’s back and sucked in a big lungful of air. Needed to help somehow. “Oh, what a day. I imagine you--.”

Geralt span and faced him, his expression murderous, skin stretched across his jaw as he snarled and Jaskier fought every urge to step back. “Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it that when I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it’s you? Shovelling it!”

The bard’s lip quivered, and it felt like a knife twisted its way through his heart. The tears sprang to his eyes unbidden. “That’s not fair--.”

“The child surprise, the djinn, all of it! If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands!” And then Geralt turned his back and faced the horizon, his head bowed. _Dismissed._

Jaskier could feel the hurt clawing its way from his chest. It closed his throat and his fingers flexed by his sides. _He doesn’t mean it. He’s upset. He’s just…_ except he does. Geralt is a man of few words, and when he does speak, he chooses each one carefully, like a majordomo selecting a fine wine. 

Life had given Geralt very few blessings. In fact, it repeatedly kicked him until he was on his knees, and then it just kept going. The White Wolf had been brought low. Well, _life_ might not give Geralt any blessings, but Jaskier _could_. This one would be… _easy_. “Right, uh… right then… I’ll… go and get the rest of the story from the others,” he paused, swallowed the lump in his throat and willed his legs to move. “See you around, Geralt.”

Jaskier didn’t even notice the trip back down the mountain. The climb had taken an eternity, been full of perils and antics, but the descent seemed to be over in the blink of an eye; an empty void in his memory and his heart. One minute he was trying to scribble notes in his journal through a glaze of tears, a dwarf talking at about one thousand miles an hour, and the next he was in… _oh fuck,_ he was in Posada. 

His heart must want a real beating. A glutton for punishment. His stay in the tavern was brief, and he found his eyes wandering over to that corner repeatedly. What did he expect to see? Geralt sitting there, brooding. Like some tremendous cosmic entity had pulled a big lever in the sky to reset fate. One more chance to get it right. _One more opportunity to do the opposite of everything he had done to piss Geralt off._

“Impossible. Everything you _are_ pisses him off.” Jaskier drowned himself in the ale and woke up in someone’s front garden with all of his money gone and his breeches missing.

***

_1264: Oxenfurt_

“This is heartbreak,” he informed the unconscious drunk on the bar next to him. “I know it well. When the Countess uses and casts me aside. Every time a--,” he paused, took a massive mouthful of watered-down wine, and the drunk grunted in his sleep, “no… no, you’re right, I’m lying. I don’t know this type of heartbreak well. This… I have never felt something so completely soul-shattering. I thought, for just a moment, that… we had something more, you see. Something different, and I… I got carried away with it. I opened my heart, and I don’t think he even noticed.”

The barkeep trudged over. “Are you going to sing today, or just drink? There ain’t any rooms here for drunk bards that don’t sing.”

Jaskier hiccuped, inspected the bottom of his cup, and then leaned left to pick up his lute. He fell off the chair. The stables were comfortable anyway.

A year went by. Jaskier drank more. Occasionally he’d sing, but his music felt hollow.

***

_1265: Tretogor_

“We could use a man like you,” the Redanian intelligence officer flicked the curtain, peering out into the streets of Novigrad in search of a spy that was not there. “You can get access to places we can’t.”

“Places you can’t? Really? Is it so hard to install a spy in the courts of Nilfgaard? Oh, only the other day I overheard a conversation between a general and a--, ah, yes, I see your point.” Jaskier blinked at the pointed stare he received.

“The drinking has to stop though,” the soldier turned - _the soldier because Jaskier couldn’t for the life of him remember the man’s name -_ and indicated the half-empty bottle of spirit on the table. “The last thing we need is a drunk bard crooning about our orders to the Emperor himself.”

Jaskier stared at the spirit and his empty glass. The bottom of a bottle had been the only comfort for… a long time; _so many_ bottle-bottoms. Until receiving the letter for this meeting, he hadn’t seen his chin for two months due to lack of shaving, and the bathwater turned an unpleasant shade of grey while he was in it. It was pathetic. Jaskier was _better_ than this. “The drinking stops.” He nodded.

“Good, now, listen carefully. I will give you all the dates and the meeting times. All you need to do is sing and _listen_ in the courts. No heroics, no intervention. Can you do that, bard?”

“Yes, I can. Not the heroic type anyway.” Jaskier flashed a self-deprecating smile and then sat forward as the intelligence officer inducted him into the process. They only needed him now and then. He would be paid. That was all he needed to know.

***

_1268: Posada (Autumn)_

Jaskier performed well. The war was now over, and a fragile peace existed between the North and the South. Redanian Intelligence rewarded him with decent pay, and he even returned to Oxenfurt twice to give a guest lecture at the university. His old professors were happy to see him. Ecstatic even. Things were looking up. 

Yet, every evening when he laid his head down even with the most beautiful of company, his mind drifted. It drifted back to a pair of golden eyes that crinkled at the edges when their owner was amused, a shock of hair the colour of moonlight and a low gravelly voice that said _‘Jaskier’_ in a way no one ever had before. His heart ached in those twilight hours, but it was okay. 

He was healing.

Occasionally he still returned to Posada, just to… see. _No, he wasn’t sure why either._ But here he was again. It was a ritual of self-flagellation that he still couldn’t shake. He sat at the bar and shovelled stew into his mouth with gusto. _It was damn good stew._ The door grated open, but he paid it no mind as he washed down a tender chunk of beef with a mouthful of good beer. Heavy footfalls approached, and a rather large man deposited himself in the bar stool on his right. A deep, gruff voice beckoned the barkeep over, “Ale. Bread, please.”

Jaskier stopped eating and sat up straight, focusing purely on the peripheral of his vision. The first thing he saw was the _three_ hilts jutting over the new arrival's right shoulder - that alone was enough to stop his heart - followed by the stripes of red and black of his gambeson and jacket. When the Witcher leaned back to kick his booted feet up onto the rungs of the stool, the medallion on his chest fluttered down from a sword strap, and Jaskier held his breath. _Dear Melitele, what were the chances?_

The bard lowered his spoon slowly into the bowl and took his time to study the Witcher next to him. Somebody had cut his mop of black hair scruffily at some point, but now it was just long enough to be pulled behind his head in a small tail; his eyes were the trademark deep amber, and his clean-shaven jaw was proud and angular.

“You’re already staring, and you’ve only seen my good side,” the Witcher spoke softly, but in a deep, rich baritone that hadn’t fully revealed itself when ordering his food. His order arrived, and he slid the coins across the bar so that the barkeep didn’t have to touch him physically.

“Well, if the other side is even half as good as this one, then I’m in for a treat, aren’t I?” It escaped before he could stop it. _Why did he insist on flirting with people that could kill him with their pinky finger?_ The Witcher’s eyebrows shot up, but he leaned to the right and turned his head to face Jaskier fully. 

Given the previous decade of his life, Jaskier was relatively unshakeable. He was thankful for this because the scars that wound their way up the right side of the Witcher’s face were quite something. They disfigured the corner of his lips and chin, and twisted their way up to and through his right eye, finishing just below his eyebrow. At first glance, they were truly horrifying, but the longer Jaskier looked, the more they seemed to fade into inconsequence; there was something oddly noble about the amber eyes that stared at him inquisitively, something warm and curious. Similar to Geralt’s in many ways, but regal and… _kind._

“Yes, I was right. A treat.” Jaskier grinned, and then braced himself for the angry dismissal, the grunt or the punch to the face he was sure he was about to receive. None of it came. The Witcher turned back to his meal with what _definitely_ sounded like a quiet huff of amusement; he tugged his gloves off with his teeth and deposited them on the bar next to his tankard. 

Jaskier’s mouth fell open, and he picked up his drink quickly to cover it. When he placed it down again, he swallowed thickly. This Witcher almost _looked_ like Geralt. If his hair was white and the scar missing, then Jaskier would’ve mistaken them for brothers, but the heavyweight of brooding was absent. There was something. _Something_ heavy, but it wasn’t brooding. “I’m Jaskier, by the way. And you are...?”

The Witcher finished his mouthful of bread and washed it down with a hearty gulp of ale, his forehead creasing again as if recalling some distant memory. “Jaskier.” The bard’s heart skipped a beat when his name rolled out in that deep timber, and the Witcher tapped the bar thoughtfully. “You’re the bard.” Only now did his companion look down at the lute propped by Jaskier’s feet, before his gaze flickered back up to his face. “The one that followed Geralt a couple of years ago.”

Jaskier’s heart knotted and then punched him in the throat, and for a moment, he just couldn’t speak. _Of course._ This Witcher that looked so much like Geralt wore the same damn _medallion_ as Geralt and even _sounded_ like Geralt… would _know_ Geralt. “Ah, y-yes,” he looked away, swallowing again to steady his voice. “Has he… uh, mentioned me?” _Stop._ After all these years, _just stop_. He couldn’t help it though. Couldn’t stop the emotional self-flagellation even if he tried.

“Yes, he has,” the Witcher’s head cocked to the side, like an inquisitive wolf seeking to paw at a curious object but too cautious about extending its leg; he squinted at Jaskier’s face as the silence drew on between them and the intensity of his gaze made Jaskier squirm. _Looking for something, measuring…_ Eventually, he looked back to his food, and the bard heaved a sigh of relief. “I’m Eskel. Same training school.” 

“Eskel, well…” Jaskier pushed a smile onto his face using all of the hardwon emotional fortitude acquired in the last four years. “An honour. Truly.” 

“Do you still sing it?”

“Sing… what?” Jaskier curled his fingers into his palms and gazed down at the bar below them. _He knew what._

Eskel cast him a knowing glance. _A knowing glance; how dare he._ And then moved his foot to tap his boot against Jaksier’s lute lightly. “You should. Keeps me fed. Purse is always heavier when I leave an Alderman that knows the words,” he finished his food and sat there nursing his drink. “So, thank you.” 

“Well, I…” Jaskier stared at him with an open mouth again. _He was going to start catching flies at this rate._ Gratitude. That was genuine gratitude. No joke, no sarcasm. Eskel sat there passively sipping his beer as if it were the most natural thing in the world to thank Jaskier for his jaunty tunes and his mythologising; _so, thank you_. They sat in companionable silence, and Jaskier ordered himself another drink, paused, and then indicated Eskel. “And another for my companion, please.” The barkeep looked at him sceptically; the frown said ‘you know what _that_ is right?’ and Jaskier scowled impatiently. The beer appeared. 

“I thought Witchers only wore black.”

Eskel laughed, and Jaskier nearly choked on his damn drink. It was a deep rumble, like distant thunder rolling through the Blue Mountains, and just as warm as the summer rains that accompanied the storm. And that _smile._ It crinkled the corners of his eyes just like Geralt’s, but the expression actually made it to his lips, revealing brilliant white teeth in a charming grin. “Oh, that’s just Geralt,” he picked up the fresh drink and tipped it at Jaskier in thanks. “He’s… well, he’s Geralt.” 

Jaskier hummed in agreement. _Oh, he was Geralt alright._ “And the swords. You have three; I thought you only carried two. Steel for man; silver for monsters.” Encouraged by Eskel’s positive reception, Jaskier continued to prattle on with enthusiasm, but his face fell when he saw Eskel’s demeanour shift. 

There was that heaviness again. Not anger, or menace… _oh fuck,_ was that sadness? The Witcher’s hand lifted from the bar, his fingertips fluttering across the hilt of one of the silverswords, and for the first time, Jaskier noted a second medallion tied around its pommel. Witchers wore those medallions until they died, and then it was burned with them on a pyre. It could only mean one thing...

“It’s not mine,” Eskel murmured. “It belonged to someone else. I’m returning it home.”

“Ahh,” the bard dropped his eyes. “I’m… sorry. I didn’t mean to come across as--.” 

“Oh, it’s fine, he knew what he was doing when he broke his vow of neutrality,” the Witcher waved a hand in dismissal, and then knocked back the rest of his drink. “The Path is cruel, but the world of man is worse. As you know well.” The stool legs scraped across the rough-hewn wooden floor as Eskel stood and picked his gloves off the bar. “Thanks for the drink, Jaskier. And, uh… if you could sing that tune a bit more often next season, this one has been a bit sparse.” 

Jaskier stared after that broad back as it cut an easy path back through the tavern and disappeared into the bleak autumn afternoon. Eskel was heading home to Kaer Morhen for the winter. The bard turned back to the bar and pushed that deep, rumbling laugh from his mind.

His heart was too fragile for another one.


	2. Rest, Coën

Eskel stood between Vesemir and Geralt as the pyre blazed, clouding out the sun with thick black smoke. The medallion lay across the top; without a body, it was the most they could do for Coën. Lambert stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his head bowed, and jaw clenched. 

No surprise really. Despite being from a different school, Coën was Lambert’s close friend. They'd been almost inseparable since the destruction of Kaer Seren, the Gryphon School's home, and Coën had started wintering at Kaer Morhen. Of similar age, they spent the whole time carousing, sparring and laughing.

If Geralt's medallion or body sat within that inferno, then Eskel would… he closed his eyes and tilted his head down to stem the twist in his chest. _He’d be jumping into the fire to burn with him._ So when Lambert turned suddenly and started to stomp away, smashing his fist through a tree and then drawing his sword to slice through some old target dummies in the courtyard, no one said anything. They left him to rage against the injustice until the sunset, and his temper exhausted itself.

They sat in the Grand Hall later, the hearth barely warding off the winter winds that howled through the rafters, and gazed up at the silver sword displayed above the mantle in remembrance. The silence drew on through dinner, and then several pints of Lambert’s potato moonshine. Vesemir bid them good night and disappeared to his room, and finally, Eskel had to speak, if only to hear something other than the echo of a thousand ghosts. A joke really; they’d cleared out all the wraiths years ago. “It was exactly where Yennefer said it would be. A quick bit of Axii to get past the guard and just walked right out with it.”

“At least they still kept his medallion,” Geralt spoke softly, staring down into his tankard. “Usually that’s the first thing they loot from a Witcher’s corpse and pawn.”

Lambert growled. “Woulda’ cut through every thieving fucker there until I found it.”

“And _that_ is precisely why I went instead,” Eskel reached across for the alchemy flask nearest. Lambert insisted on using the school’s best alchemy supplies to brew his stomach melting concoction, and Vesemir had long since given up arguing with him. “The last thing we need is to upset the peace. It’s fucking fragile as it is.”

“You know what, it woulda’ been great if they had all just… torn each other apart, no Nilfgaard, no Redania, no Temeria, no humans, just us, the elves, the dwarves and the monsters,” Lambert gripped the edge of the table. “I fuckin’ begged him. _Begged._ I don’t beg anyone… and he just said he couldn’t stand by and--, _fuck._ Stupid bastard.” His grip loosened and he stood, snatching the flask from the table once Eskel had topped himself up. “Pfft. What does Vesemir always say? _Only the good die young._ ” Dropping his voice into its usual officious tremor as he imitated his mentor, Lambert swung his leg over the bench. Done for the night.

“Well, if the good die young, Lambert, you’re going to live forever,” Eskel called after him and received a middle finger flicked over the shoulder for his troubles. Geralt chuckled, and Eskel’s heart did that little backflip it did every-fucking-time. Because Eskel was so deeply infatuated with the man sitting at his left that it physically hurt. Looking into Jaskier’s face in Posada had been like staring into a mirror - a very flattering, magical mirror that improved his face substantially - but a mirror nonetheless. Their souls bore the same Geralt-shaped burns. “How did Ciri take it?”

“Hmm, not well,” Geralt rumbled, his elbows propped on the table in front of him. “She was really fond of Coën. Think she spent more time with _him_ during her stay here than anyone else, outside of Triss or me.”

“Yeah, I never met a single person who _wasn’t_ really fond of Coën,” Eskel stared into the middle distance as the round, jovial face of his brother fluttered into his mind and then dissipated like the smoke of his funeral pyre. A funeral pyre without even a body to mourn. “You, however, leave a trail of broken and bruised hearts in your wake.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “Where’d that come from?”

“I met your bard in Posada,” Eskel started lightly, his fingers tracing the rim of his tankard. “He looks well. Apart from the huge bleeding hole in his heart-- _figurative,_ Geralt. Not literal.” He held his hand up when the other’s own heart rate suddenly accelerated. “He asked me whether you ever mentioned him.”

In the last five years, they'd been so caught up in Ciri’s training - particularly her visions and trances - and the political upheaval gripping the Continent, that tracking Jaskier had proven impossible. At times it felt like he didn’t _want_ to be found. Rumours and glimpses of him had assured Geralt that the bard was still alive, and that had to be enough. He played the mountainside scene repeatedly in his head, usually when he should be sleeping and despite his conviction that driving Jaskier away was mercy. His world was too dangerous. And yet, each time he went over it, his words became more vicious, and the miserable betrayal written all over Jaskier's face bit deeper into his heart. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘yes’, and then I let him change the subject.”

“Hmm.” The silence dragged its nails over them like an Ulfedhinn slicing its claws through stone, and Eskel allowed Geralt to stew; he knew better than to push it. Geralt’s thoughts were a storm that Eskel felt too tired to weather after his journey home. When Geralt spoke again, his tone was contemplative, “It’s going to be a cold one tonight.”

“Yeah,” Eskel pushed himself up from the bench, and his arm brushed against Geralt’s for only a moment. There was a time when that simple statement would have ended with Geralt wrapped in Eskel’s arms beneath a woollen blanket before a blazing fireplace; rough palms anointed with fresh calluses from training and soft lips against young skin. Just kisses and embraces at first, and then adolescent fumbling when they grew older.

It happened inside the walls of Kaer Morhen. When your waking days were characterised by pain, blood and death, the only comfort to be found was in the arms of someone who knew _exactly_ what was happening to you. Eskel found comfort in Geralt; his laughter, his big heart and his unflinching belief in _doing what’s right and just_ , but their training days were a long way behind them. 

Geralt’s additional mutations changed him into a man that Eskel, at first, struggled to recognise. The Geralt of his youth was still there and flared to life with enough alcohol _and_ in the presence of Ciri. Eskel cherished those moments dearly. But otherwise, the mages took Geralt’s passion and muted it beneath a layer of stoic menace. He was the best among them, but it had come with a cost. 

The Path, of course, also meant distance. Distance meant loneliness. Loneliness meant looking for solace where you could. For Geralt, that meant moving on - from Kaer Morhen, from his adolescence, from the boy he had been. Eskel never had and cobbled together what he could. The rest was history. 

“I’ll make sure your hearth is piled high. Don’t mope down here too long, alright?”

“Thanks,” Geralt nodded and reached for more alcohol. Eskel left him to his thoughts.


	3. Treat You Better

Harpies liked to nest high in mountains and rocky outcrops. Plenty of ledges for them to build on and store all the shiny things they stole from the nearby settlements. That was another thing they always did—nest near settlements. Enter Witcher. 

Eskel stood at the bottom of the ravine and gazed up towards the sky. Narrow passes like this always made him feel claustrophobic. No room to swing a sword, and a dancing star bomb or stray Aard was liable to cause an avalanche. He needed to get them out of here, but climbing up would disturb then and leave him vulnerable to attack—time for a bit of creativity.

He could hear them foraging around above him. The quiet snuffling, squeaking and cawing of a settled nest of harpies. Not for long. Eskel unhooked the grapeshot bomb from his belt and turned it over in his left hand as his right slowly withdrew his silver blade; the metal whispered across the steel locket of the scabbard, and the noises above him suddenly became a little louder.

The fuse sputtered to life as he struck it against a nearby stone and he wound up for an overarm throw that sent it high over his head. The bomb exploded in a burst of flame and shrapnel at just the right level. He ducked underneath the ledge's overhang above to avoid the collateral damage, and the harpies swooped from their nests in terror.

Now it was simply a case of pushing them out into the open. Bursts of Igni herded the shrieking creatures to a clearing, away from the shelter of the ravine. One by one, he knocked them from the sky with Aard and slashed through their heads and their wings. The hybrid decoction lacing his sword burned through their system like acid, and even those who didn't die beneath his blade straight away soon fitted and perished on the floor.

Once the last harpy fell, he took a moment to pant amongst their corpses. Harpies were fast. Dispatching them had to be systematic, but _energetic_ in execution. Thankfully, Eskel had plenty of practice when clearing out the dens near Kaer Morhen. More and more moved in afresh every year. _Now the eggs._ Silver blade returned to his back, he found the route he’d scouted earlier up onto the ledges and proceeded to stamp on or burn the eggs to ensure they weren’t viable. There was plenty of evidence of the harpies' thievery; jewellery, crates, clothing, tools and even a child's toy. The townsfolk would clear up later.

Perhaps he was a little bit arrogant. _Perhaps._ Lambert would say so, Geralt might be more diplomatic. Vesemir would cuff him over the head and call him an idiot. Harpies usually attacked together as a flock, so why the hell would one hang back? 

It speared him from a nearby alcove, sinking its claws under his pauldron and snagging through the fabric of his padded gambeson. The momentum kicked him off the ledge and only through sheer bloody-mindedness did he manage to twist and latch a hand into a nook two metres below. His legs dangled over the sheer drop, and he clenched his teeth. _Shit._ With her prey clinging on by one hand, she circled and then swooped in for the kill. Unfortunately for her, her prey was now severely pissed off and set her alight with extreme prejudice. It didn’t matter. She’d done enough.

He could feel the blood seeping from the wound in his back, and then climb back up to the ledge sent white-hot pain down through his torso with every movement. It was going to need stitches and a dose of Swallow. Irritating; his White Gull supplies were running low. Only a few more clutches remained, and he booted them petulantly off the ledges into the opposite side of the ravine before climbing down and collecting his evidence. Six heads. 

***

Flotsam was not really Jaskier’s type of town. It was dark, dingy and full of squalor, but he’d been dispatched to the Mahakham mountains to negotiate a new treaty with the dwarves that lived there. Or rather, to supervise the negotiations and report back to his handler. _Boring._ It just so happened that, upon arriving, he’d heard a group of villagers discussing the Witcher that had been dispatched to deal with a harpy problem - _terrible scar on ‘faces, afeared ‘e were savage -_ and so he decided to wait in the tavern for Eskel’s return.

He was halfway through editing a song when the man himself shouldered his way through the door with a handful of harpy heads. The Alderman rose from his seat across the room as the trophies were placed down in front of him. “Nice work, Witcher. An’ the eggs?”

“Gone. It'll be safe for you to send your men up there and collect the items they stole.” His hand extended and it was immediately filled with the expected coin purse, no question. A slightly uneven gait carried him to the bar, and he slid several coins across in exchange for a room key, shouldered his bag and headed straight upstairs without another word, or glancing at the other patrons.

The others were too focused on the harpy heads to notice the trail of bright red blood the Witcher left sporadically in his wake. Still, Jaskier was not, and immediately abandoned his drink to pursue Eskel to his rented room. A loud thump echoed from behind the door, and he knocked firmly with the side of his fist. “Eskel, it’s Jaskier,” he paused, “is there anything I can… I can help with?”

A moment of silence. _Shit, had he collapsed?_ And then Eskel’s low rumble, slightly pained. “Can you sew?”

“As in, clothes or men?”

“Both.”

“Yes. I can.”

The sound of shuffling - fabric, an item of furniture - and then the lock of the door clicked, and Jaskier was faced with the literal wall of Eskel’s bare chest. It would’ve been a true marvel had it not been coated in a thin film of blood across his collarbone and crowned by a face contorted in discomfort. The sight only got worse when he turned, and Jaskier saw the wound across the back of his left shoulder; deep and ragged, like someone had taken a hacksaw to his back. “By Freya’s sweet ass, what did that?”

“Harpy,” Eskel grumbled and returned to his pack. “Caught me off guard like an initiate. I’m embarrassed and appalled.” Big hands pawed through several bottles and containers until he found one full of clear liquid, a needle and length of thread.

“Right,” Jaskier dumped his satchel on the bed and shrugged out of his doublet; the sleeves of his chemise easily rolled to his elbows. “Give it here. We need to sterilise--, oh.” The bard watched with a touch of awe as Eskel turned his hand over, fingers curling in the sign of igni, only for a small flame to hover over his palm and through the needle. “That’s… impressive.”

“Mmm,” Eskel managed a small smile despite the dull throb of his wound. _He knew._ Few Witchers had his level of mastery in Signs. Not even Geralt. Eskel gestured for Jaskier’s hands and dumped a generous amount of the clear liquid over them; it had a sharp, almost acidic smell, and Jaskier recognised it as the base of most of Geralt’s potions - White Gull. “Just going to chuck this over, and then you can get to work…” Eskel braced his hand near the window and took three deep breaths, before tipping the rest of the bottle over the laceration. His head-butted forward against the wall, landing with a dull thud and he swore quietly under his breath, fingernails biting into the wood cladding as the sting abated. " _Always fuckin' burns._ "

“Hey, it’s alright. Come on, let me see to it,” Jaskier pulled the chair out from the desk; there was barely enough room in here for a normal-sized person, let alone a normal-sized person and a Witcher, so Eskel folded carefully into the seat and sat up straight. “There’s a lot of blood here still. Have you got a--? Thank you.” He plucked the linen from Eskel’s hand and intermittently wiped away blood as he worked. Geralt had taught him how to sew wounds within a few months of their partnership. Sewing up your own back was impossible, and surgeons, doctors and the magically inclined were untrustworthy around the bodies of anything non-human.

And _this_ body was just as staggeringly beautiful as the one he'd tended to for all those years. Eskel's skin was a darker shade as if the sun actually saw beneath his armour now and then; his back and chest a patchwork of different scars, some flat, some raised, with a light dusting of dark hair on his barreled chest that Jaskier could see in the mirror opposite. The overwhelming urge to run his palms over it all - followed closely by his mouth - only intensified with every pass of the cloth. It set his mind on fire, and a lot of deep nose breathing was required to keep the rest of him under control. The smell of White Gull and blood was a sufficient dampener. _Urgh_. It was no wonder no other person had really held his attention in the last five years; his sexual preference was now clearly just 'Witcher'. It didn't help that this one was charming and warm. _No, didn't help at all._

Eskel’s breathing remained measured and deep, allowing Jaskier to reduce the cut to a thin, neat line, with some elasticity still left around it to ease movement. He carefully smoothed his thumbs down the edges, passing the goosebumps off as raw skin sensitive to touch and then lifted his gaze to the mirror. “It's still going to feel ti--.” He hadn’t expected the intensity of the two amber eyes that stared back at him. Pupils partially dilated, lips pressed in a thin line. The expression itself was unreadable, but Jaskier couldn’t tear his gaze away. For a terrible moment, he was worried that his internal monologue of adoration had been _out loud._

But Eskel broke the contact first. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Jaskier's throat crackled around the words, and he cleared it as he stepped away. His hands were still flush to Eskel’s shoulders and rapidly becoming warmer as all of his blood rushed to the surface of his skin. Best to remove those quickly. “This room isn’t big enough for a bath, but I’ll get some warm water so you can wash the rest of the blood off.”

Eskel dipped his chin, amber eyes now soft. “And umm, some food?” Upwards inflexion. _Asking._ Not demanding. 

The bard chuckled. “Yes, food, and I might even treat you to some beer for being such a good Witcher.” His face immediately fell to stunned shock at his own bloody idiocy - _teasing a Witcher he had met twice, brilliant idea -_ but relaxed again when Eskel smirked and huffed a laugh in agreement. 

“Damn straight I’m a good Witcher.” 

***

The water arrived first, and Jaskier helped Eskel clean to avoid stretching the wound or its stitches. The Witcher allowed him to wipe the blood from his back and Jaskier could feel every firm curve of muscle under his palm as it shifted and adjusted, even though the press of the washcloth. Jaskier's earlier desire to run his hands over Eskel's skin suddenly felt like a brutal type of torture. 

When the food arrived, they ate together, mostly in silence. Jaskier sat on the end of the bed, legs folded under him, and picked over the apple slices on his plate. Eskel broke the silence first, “You know, you don’t talk half as much as Geralt made out.”

“Ahh, yes, well… I’ve, umm... I’ve rather learned my lesson in that regard,” Jaskier smiled weakly, but covered it by stuffing an apple slice in his mouth, once level-toned, he continued. “Talking made Geralt hate me enough to abandon me on a mountain top; it’s enough to make one reflect a bit on whether what one has to say is really of any import.”

“ _Jaskier,”_ Eskel’s brow furrowed, and the way his name rumbled from that broad chest made Jaskier fall immediately silent. “Geralt is a lot of good things, but he’s also an ass.” 

“Well, yes, I could’ve told you that.”

“No, I don’t think you fully understand,” Eskel placed his plate aside and leaned back in his chair. “He told me what he said to you on that mountainside. He was wrong. And he should’ve treated you better than he did.” 

_Speechless._ Again. Jaskier pressed his mouth together tightly because otherwise, his lower lip was going to quiver to an embarrassing degree. He covered it with more apple slices and stared at his lap. 

The silence hung for a moment, and then Eskel sighed. “He never used to be this way.”

“He didn’t?”

“No, when we were training, he was the brightest, sparkiest, most arrogant piece of shit you’d ever met,” Eskel grinned, and Jaskier couldn’t help but reflect it. “We did everything together. One time, we tied a jug to this huge forest bumblebee and watched it buzz around. Looking back, pretty cruel, but hilarious to two teenage dickheads. _Fuck,_ Vesemir tanned our backsides so badly with his belt we couldn’t sit for a week.”

“Sounds like you’re close.” Jaskier's smile softened as he built the image of a more youthful Geralt and his best friend in his mind; getting up to mischief and then enduring the punishment side-by-side. Of course, Geralt would befriend someone like Eskel; kind, polite and warm. He was the opposite of the world they inhabited—an irresistible beacon in the darkness. Jaskier certainly felt drawn to him. But was he to be a ship safely brought to harbour by a lighthouse, or a moth seared by the flame? He wasn't sure he was strong enough to find out.

As soon as Jaskier said the word 'close', he saw the shift in Eskel's composure. Minor. It would've been imperceptible if they weren't in such close quarters. A drop of his shoulders, a dimness in his bright eyes that glanced away. Subtle. This was someone used to hiding the hollow disappointment behind a carefully constructed facade; a facade currently cracked open just an inch by the rawness of the wound on his shoulder and the physical demand of his last contract. Anyone perceptive enough could take a quick peek, and perception was one of Jaskier's better attributes.

“We’d walk through fire for each other,” Eskel replied finally. “That doesn’t mean he can’t be an ass. And now I’ve seen you sew up a harpy scratch with that level of efficiency; I think he’s an even bigger one than before. He didn’t realise how lucky he was until he lost it.” 

The Witcher was grumbling into his tankard now; Jaskier could sense his tiredness, so allowed the conversation to peter out into companionable silence, despite the desire to ask about a million more questions. Even five years later, his heart still felt as raw as it did, staring down Geralt’s anger. Eskel's words, said in his deep, rich voice, were like a balm and Jaskier longed for more of it. _Don't talk this one out of your life._

When Eskel began to nod off in the chair, Jaskier shifted from the bed and tugged the Witcher’s elbow until he moved across to it. Eskel huffed in contentment when he finally lay across the mattress, but tilted his head to eye the bard. “You headin’ off?”

Jaskier paused with his hand on the door and turned back with the biggest smile he could muster. “Yes, I’ve got to catch a coach early in the morning. Be safe, Eskel. Until next time.” Every fibre of his being wanted to curl up against the Witcher’s side and… talk. He knew now that he had a kindred spirit sprawled on that bed; someone else who’d been scalded by Geralt’s rejection, or at least something similar. He longed for the comfort of someone who _understood_. Even if it never went any further. For some reason, Jaskier felt like he could talk to Eskel for an eternity.

Jaskier left him to sleep.


	4. Gentleman Scholar (E)

The drop off went smoothly, and Jaskier handed the sketches and maps covertly to the Redanian officer waiting for him in the tavern’s storeroom. Peace didn’t really mean _peace_. Not really. Not until all the treaties were signed, the young princesses married young princes, and the old kings dead and buried. 

The heavy pouch of coins in his satchel was a welcome weight after a few weeks of paucity. Intelligence work was not the most comfortable. It was now time to spend some serious coin on good food, good wine and find himself some good company to while the night away with, preferably in a bed.

He was walking by the stable when he caught a glimpse of a familiar red gambeson accented by dual sword hilts. It was barely a flicker of movement from his current angle, but the combination was unmistakable. _Eskel._ Jaskier didn’t even try to stem the broad grin that sprawled itself across his face, and he altered his path to carry him around the back of the tavern towards the stable doors. _And then he heard it._

A soft whimper tempered with deep, panting breaths, and Jaskier’s eyes widened. They weren’t _fearful_ whines. No, far from it. _Directly opposite in fact._ The two were very well-hidden from the main path; someone would have to come looking to find them, which could only mean one thing. The bard crouched down and peered through the slats in the outside of a stall. From this point, he could see Eskel’s broad back. 

One of his big hands was planted on the stable wall, and his head tilted to the shoulder of a young man, his lips brushing over an eager ear. That low, rumbling voice was barely a whisper, and Jaskier couldn’t pick out any of the words. The stablehand could though because he was shaking like a leaf and melting under every syllable. 

No older than his early twenties, he had dark brunette hair and youthful features beneath a thin layer of stubble; his pupils were blown wide over emerald green eyes, and one hand latched needily onto Eskel’s bicep as he listened to the promises made solely to him. He was quite enchanting, and wouldn’t look out of place in a Cintran court amongst the young nobles. _Eskel had bloody good taste._

“Yes, _please_ … _please_ , just… I need you to… Ahh.” The young man begged as Eskel placed his lips against his neck, teasing flushed skin with the briefest of kisses before he drew away and sank to his knees. Gloved hands plucked dexterously at the ties of the stablehands breeches and pulled his already full cock free... 

At this point, Jaskier looked away and pressed his back against the stall wall, his knees hugged to his chest, eyes wide. _Eskel was interested in men. And had managed to flirt his way into a liaison with one of the most attractive young men this side of the Yaruga._ These were the facts as they stood, and even those two ideas scattered Jaskier’s thoughts into disarray. His brief and uncharacteristic embarrassment lasted all but three seconds when he heard the stablehand moan. It was one of the most wanton sounds Jaskier had ever heard in his life and said _far_ too much about how good a service he was receiving. “ _Fuck…_ Witcher, your mouth is… nnghh--ahh.” 

_Sweet gods above was he really going to watch Eskel suck someone’s soul out through their cock?_ Yes. Yes, he was. Jaskier knew enough about Witcher senses to shield himself; he was downwind as Geralt had shown him, and the smell of the stable was hardly _discreet._ He shuffled and looked back through the gap, and what he saw went south to pool in his groin. 

Eskel must have requested his chosen lover’s silence, because the young man clamped a hand over his own mouth, teeth biting down into the side of his palm to try and stem the noise. His other hand-coiled through Eskel’s mop of black hair, fingers squeezing rather than pushing, as if seeking anchorage on the tidal wave of sensation currently shuddering through his body. 

Even Jaskier could hear the filthy, _glorious_ sounds of Eskel’s tongue and lips as he worked around the cock in his mouth, and Jaskier wished he could see more than those broad shoulders framed in pauldrons and sword hilts. _Then he heard Eskel moan and Jaskier nearly died on the spot._ It was a low, satisfying sound that lasted for only a moment, barely loud enough to be heard over the din inside the tavern. Jaskier could see both his hands - one resting lightly on the man's hip, the other gripping his own thigh - so he was getting off purely on pleasuring someone. _Oh, that was hardly fair._

Suddenly Jaskier’s imagination put him in the stablehand’s place, with Eskel on his knees at his feet, mouth stretched around his cock and growling against his skin, lapping the precum from his tip like it was the sweetest nectar on the Continent. _His mind was a filthy, vicious beast that lived only to hurt him._ His breeches suddenly felt way, _way_ too tight, and he shuffled away until he could safely stand up without being spotted. He left the two to their pleasure and hobbled his way inside to order a stiff - no, not stiff, _fucking flaccid, behave yourself_ \- just a drink. _A drink._

***

By the time Eskel appeared in the doorway, Jaskier had already downed enough alcohol to take the edge off, but the sudden appearance of the Witcher set his senses on fire again. _And then the bastard flicked a thumb over his lower lip, oh for gods’ sake._ Jaskier crossed his legs and met the wave he received with one of his own, gritting his teeth behind the smile until his heart stopped trying to escape his chest. Eskel was happy to see him. _Look at that grin._ “Jaskier, you are doomed.” He informed no one, in particular, falling silent as his company for the evening - far superior to anything he could have flirted his way into - sat down opposite.

“Didn’t expect to see you this far south,” Eskel greeted him with another smile; a mug of ale clasped in one hand and a plate of salted meat and vegetables in the other. “Thought you were native to Oxenfurt.”

“I had some business south of the border. All done now, so I’ll be heading home tomorrow morning,” Jaskier couldn’t drag his eyes away from Eskel’s mouth; those full lips, marred by his sacrifices, but still so very enticing. Perhaps more so because of it. “How about you?”

“Mmm, heard there was a drowner issue along the Yaruga. When I got there, the contract had already been collected though. Lambert,” he rolled his eyes, and when Jaskier looked slightly confused, “he’s another Witcher from our school; like Geralt and me. He’s a git because he usually only hunts Kaedwen and Aedirn. Gunna’ give him a hiding next time I see him.”

Jaskier couldn’t help but chuckle, because Eskel looked thoroughly disgruntled. There was no menace to it though; more like an older brother plotting the downfall of a younger sibling after they ate the last slice of cake, so he continued, “Do you not cross paths often then?”

“Try not to. War creates a lot of work, as you would imagine,” he paused to take a drink, sitting back in his chair. “Peacetime, not so much, and contracts don’t pay enough to tide two Witchers over. Kings need to keep their soldiers occupied, so they send them out hunting. Stupid idea. Once found an entire kikimora den full of Temerian soldiers. All bound up ready for the larvae. I just set fire to it... and walked away.” Eskel fluttered his hand through the air and sighed.

Jaskier felt like his grin was going to split his face in half, and he tried to temper his enthusiasm with a respectable amount of shock. “That sounds… horrifying.” _Failed._

“And you don’t sound or look horrified,” Eskel smirked and shoved another fork full of food into his mouth. “‘Spose you saw your fill while travelling with Gera--, ahh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stick the boot in.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Jaskier waved it away flippantly while his heart quickly glued back on the fragments shaken loose. “He left me at taverns and such for the worst ones, and then I had to try and wring the details out of him. Like getting blood from a stone.”

Food now finished - _inhaled,_ more like - Eskel pushed his plate away. “The Path is dangerous, Jaskier. He would have been exceptionally neglectful if he’d taken you along with him. What type of hunts are we talking about?”

“Basilisk, ekhidna, striga,” Jaskier listed them off with a sigh.

“Yes, see… no, all of those can kill a Witcher outright if we’re not careful. He would’ve been too worried about protecting you, and then got you both killed,” Eskel put his drink down when he saw Jaskier’s forlorn expression; he was trying to hide it behind a small smile, but Eskel was too long in the tooth to be tricked so easily. “I can tell you some stories if you want. Suppose you’re still interested in that kind of thing. I’ll understand if you’re over it.”

Jaskier almost knocked his own drink over in his eagerness to lean forward and grab his notebook from the satchel at his feet. Even the thoughts of what he’d seen in the stable settled to simmer at the back of his mind faced with the promise of new source material. “Oh my--, _yes_. Do you have any idea how much I’ve…, tell me anything, the most mundane story. I really don’t care. … talk.” And _smile_ at me. _Oh, fuck off, heart. Stay out of this._

One of those deep chuckles and Eskel slumped back in his chair, tankard planted on his chest and legs crossed over at the ankle. “Right, let me see,” he hummed, tilting his head back as he considered his options. So many contracts to pick from, so Eskel went with one he was most proud of. “You said you missed a basilisk kill? I once cut a little girl out of a basilisk’s stomach. She lived. It’d eaten her whole; she was so small. You’ve about twenty minutes to cut the person out if that happens. I was in the area, hunting zeugl, they’re like… big worms, and they eat mainly sewage, and this woman comes running up to me, screaming like a legitimate banshee.”

Jaskier was enthralled immediately and scribbled notes as fast as Eskel could talk. He had to ask only a few questions here and there, more to see how far he could stretch poetic license than anything else. With Geralt, he _had_ to use poetic license to fill in the yawning gaps, but Eskel looked almost thrilled when Jaskier showed an interest. The basilisk story ended as any heroic ballad did; the hero riding into the sunset with adoration and thanks in his wake. He didn’t get paid for it, because it hadn’t been a contract, but he didn’t seem bothered. So random acts of kindness _were_ a Witcher trait. Geralt and Eskel shared that in common. 

They talked well into the night, and Jaskier could spy people leaning over to listen as Eskel described - oftentimes with rather colourful language - a particular kill or monster, and eventually Jaskier couldn’t ignore it. “I see that etiquette is rather lacking this far south.” There were several polite coughs and scraping chairs, and Eskel glanced around, having only now just noticed his audience. Eskel then proceeded to touch his face in one of the sweetest, most self-conscious gestures Jaskier had ever seen; he didn’t like being the centre of attention. Despite his confident and downright breathtaking handling of the stablehand, Eskel clearly had a rather formidable lack of self-esteem. _Noted._ Jaskier closed his journal, pen propped against the spine. “Where are you staying tonight?”

“Got a room upstairs. A bit well off at the moment, so thought I’d treat myself. You?”

“Uh, I’ve… um…” Jaskier glanced around - _lie, Jaskier,_ **_lie_ **_and say you have somewhere -_ before throwing his hands up in the air, “nowhere yet. I’ll see if they’ve got another room going.”

“Save some money and come bunk with me.” 

“Eskel, I couldn’t possibly--.”

“Stop making a fuss. C’mon, it’s late. I lock the door behind me and open the window, so I hope you’re alright to sleep under some extra blankets.”

The bard found himself standing stupidly in the centre of the small room, with its low ceiling and single bed, wishing for the floor to engulf him. As Eskel stripped off his armour and his jacket, arranging them neatly over the old, rickety writing desk under the window, Jaskier could see the firm lines of his shoulders and his chest and tried to offset his body’s response by recalling images of his Oxenfurt professors naked in the local bathhouses. _Even that didn’t help._ Eskel was either oblivious or exceptionally polite because he made no indication he’d noticed.

Only when he saw Eskel extracting his bedroll from his pack, crouching down to smooth it out over the floor, did Jaskier realise his intent. “Eskel, no, you can’t possibly sleep on the floor. You’ve paid for this, I’ll--,” he glanced around, and then indicated the poor excuse for an armchair, “I’ll sleep in that, or on your pallet.”

“My bedroll’s had a season of me sleeping on it covered in necrophage bile or other miscellaneous excrements, so that’s a firm no from me. Take the bed,” Eskel levelled him with an intense stare, left eyebrow raised, and then proceeded to unfurl his cloak as a blanket. “You going to sleep in all your clothes?” At Jaskier’s flush, Eskel was taken aback. This rather abashed individual was nothing like the man Geralt had told him about during their winters. “I won’t look.” 

“Ahh, yes, no. It’s quite alright, just a bit warm is all, I’ll… uh, thank you, Eskel. You really didn’t need to give up your bed.”

The Witcher shrugged. “You’re good company. I enjoyed tonight. Long time since I’ve had any polite conversation. No one’s usually interested.” And then he sprawled out on his sleeping mat with a sigh of relief; a huge wolf settling for a well-earned rest, practically deflating into the meagre comfort of his bedroll and cloak. “Sleep well, Jaskier.”

Jaskier stood there, mutely. _A first._ It wasn’t unusual for a Witcher to give up their bed for him - Geralt did it all the time when they could only afford a single room - but he was more _fragile_ than he’d been back then. He felt less… _entitled,_ and for some reason, he was terrified that Eskel _wouldn’t want to see him again_. Why? He’d never been this needy _in his life._ Alright, that was a slight falsehood. He was always needy, but confident, assured; he _needed_ so he _demanded_. Not now, though. It was an odd sensation to be feeling entirely the opposite, and it was one that stuck with him even as he stripped his top layer of clothes off and slipped into bed in just his braies and chemise.

 _This_ was stupid. He knew what _this_ was, and he wanted to run away from it about as much as he wanted to leap in face first. _It_ only intensified as he watched Eskel sleep, his breathing even and barely audible. Perhaps it was because this Witcher conflicted with the image he’d constructed; Eskel challenged his perspective of something so thoroughly, which destabilised him. _Yes, that was it._ It had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the burning crush developing in his chest. 

***

Cool morning air ruffled through Jaskier’s hair, and he smiled contentedly; it was still early, and the villagers were only now turning out their houses to begin the daily chores. As he rolled over and sat up, the blankets' weight fell from him, and he realised that Eskel had covered him over more during the night.

Said Witcher was currently sat by the window, chair tilted back and boots up on the sill, all armoured up again with his bedroll and cloak packed away. Instead of waking Jaskier, he quietly read; the book propped open on his knees, arms folded and chin tucked close to his chest. “Good morning.” Eskel’s eyes didn’t move from the pages, and his expression maintained that almost _serene_ look of concentration.

It felt like the ‘morning after’ without having had the sex, and Jaskier shifted awkwardly to the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you, you should have just given me a shove,” he stood to grab his breeches and doublet, but the curiosity was just _too much._ “What’re you reading?”

“The Flower and the Flame,” he turned the page, eyebrows rising at whatever he’d just read.

“Urgh, a tome of bile and hatred towards non-humans, why bother yourself with it?”

“Know thine enemy,” Eskel murmured, and as Jaskier buttoned up his doublet and smoothed his hair back, he studied his quiet companion in the sunlight. He’d somehow managed to wash while Jaskier was asleep, and the light shadow of stubble from the day before was gone. The faint scent of mineral oil betrayed the servicing of his equipment too. _Just how long had Eskel been awake and quietly tiptoeing around the room?_ Geralt was like a bull in a china shop.

“Do you enjoy reading?” The idea that Eskel was both a gentleman _and_ a scholar made Jaskier yearn in deep, profound ways that he didn’t even know existed. 

Eskel dropped his feet and closed the book almost reverently despite its contents. “Yes. Not a lot of quiet time on the Path, but read most of the winter,” he tucked his book away and ducked into his sword belts. “Ready for some breakfast?”

“You haven’t eaten yet?”

“No, c’mon. I thought of a few more stories last night you might like to hear, but you were already asleep.” 

They ate a hearty breakfast. Eskel told Jaskier more stories - wyverns, wraiths and interesting drowner finds, I mean, did you know that they sometimes guarded sunken treasure? _Jaskier bloody didn’t_ \- and the bard tried to frantically scribble down details between mouthfuls of toasted bread, eggs and bacon. 

Once or twice, Eskel brandished his knife in the air to explain a particular manoeuvre or angle, and Jaskier couldn’t help but gaze at him with a small smile, often forgetting the food on the end of his fork. The splotches of egg yolk on his journal were worth that bright, toothy grin on the Witcher’s face.


	5. Going Under

_The Rivian Pogrom (September, 1269)_

_The hatred towards non-humans had intensified since the end of the war. It was almost as if humans needed something to hate to maintain their equilibrium; the war allowed them to hate each other, but in peace, they needed to find another outlet—elves, dwarves… anything different. The spread of propaganda, of inflammatory literature by the Order of the White Rose, amongst others, hadn’t helped the situation. Peasants didn’t read, but they readily absorbed the attitudes of their betters._

_Rivia was a simmering cauldron when Geralt arrived. He could smell the tension and the hatred like a thick, cloying smog. A quick restock of supplies, a meal, and then he’d be on his way. Some contracts were just not worth it._

_Then the riot started. Two hundred and fifty-three non-humans were living in Rivia and one thousand, two hundred and thirty-four humans. The first deaths were swift and brutal. They sliced through the throat of an elf and left him to bleed out in the street; a dwarf was unceremoniously beheaded with a blunt handaxe, and then they descended into feral chaos._

_“Geralt, this is not your fight,” Yennefer pulled at his pauldron, imploring him to leave with her through a portal, but he shrugged her away. “Don’t. This can only end badly. Someone else will step in when it all calms down. Someone with an army, or a--”_

_“There is no-one else.” Geralt drew the steel sword from his back and stepped out into the street. He cut the head off the first rioter that drew near, and the others skirted back. Four elves were sprinting down the avenue in terror, one clutching a young child to her chest, and Geralt stepped in front to send the humans back with a powerful Aard. They scattered across the street like so many autumn leaves in the wind._

_“It’s a Witcher!” A shrill shriek._

_“S’not just any Witcher. That’s Geralt o’ Rivia. The queen knighted him two years ago.”_

_“Fuck, what a stupid bitch. Look at it. Freak scum.”_

_“Fiend!” “Animal!” “Beast!”_

_Geralt held his sword down by his side, and his eyes roved over the assembled heads. Two hundred in the crowd. Probably more on their way. Without warning, they surged forward, and he slid a foot back in preparation._

_Blood soaked the streets: screams, shouts, gurgles of the dying._

_And then it happened._

_Geralt went rigid as the three prongs sliced through his back, rupturing through his lungs and cutting across the side of his heart. The steel sword fell from his hand as blood erupted over his lower lip._

_“Nice, Rob. You got ‘im!”_

_Geralt fell to his knees, one gasping breath sucking more blood into his lungs. It only vaguely registered that a pitchfork had speared him. A distant voice in the back of his mind mocked him - what a fuckin’ way to die, Geralt - and it came through in Lambert’s voice. The corner of his lip flickered, but he was falling._

_He heard a shout of anguish. Ethereal and harrowing. Yennefer was at his side as he fell to the cobblestones. She was bloodied and broken; had been fighting by his side and he hadn’t even noticed. “Stay with me, please. Let me help. Let me.” She tried to centre her remaining energy, but she was spent. The corpses that littered the street were testament to that. She fell over Geralt’s chest, gasping and shuddering as her own life drained away, and he couldn’t even lift a hand to comfort her._

_“Geralt! Yen!”_

_Ciri._

_As Geralt’s world faded to black, he felt Ciri’s hands cup his face and saw the terror in her eyes. “Ci--.”_

_Ciri screamed. A surge of heat engulfed them. And then Geralt’s eyes flickered closed._

***

Never had Eskel been so relieved to see the towers of Kaer Morhen appear from the mist. He removed Scorpion’s tack and made sure he had plentiful amounts of hay and oats. “Good job, fella’. Have a rest now, eh?” Once the gates were shut and locked again, he ducked through the main entrance and stopped suddenly when he saw Lambert and Vesemir standing there waiting for him. Their expressions were dour. _Sad._ Shit, even Lambert couldn’t meet his eye.

“What?”

Vesemir sucked in a deep breath and held out a letter. “Geralt,” he paused. “Eskel, Geralt is dead. He was murdered in a pogrom.”

Eskel surged forward and snatched the letter from him. He couldn’t read the words through the blur clouding his vision and angrily swiped the back of his wrist across his face. It was enough to pick out key phrases. ‘Pogrom’, ‘massacre’, ‘died defending the innocent’... ‘my condolences’. The parchment disintegrated into Eskel’s fist, and then he was sprinting down the hall. 

_They were lying. They were fucking lying. Geralt was upstairs. He always arrived first._

He took the stairs two, sometimes three, at a time as he powered upon into the eastern tower they shared, throwing his cloak to the floor when it snagged on a jutting piece of stone. His shoulder crashed into the heavy oaken door and threw it open, chest heaving through exertion and panic.

_Empty._

Eskel frantically paced the room, as if Geralt would appear from the shadows and tackle him to the floor like this was all some truly _shit_ practical joke. The silence was deafening. He looked at the letter. Read it a second time. A third time. A fourth time. _Massacre._

_Dead. He was gone._

Geralt hadn’t died on the Path as was his right. They’d murdered him. In cold blood. _Pogrom._ ‘The Flower and the Flame’ flickered through his mind. Pages full of vitriol and disgust, and he realised _why_. They hadn’t murdered him for doing anything wrong. They had murdered him for _being_ wrong for being _other_. 

Eskel stumbled forward, his feet and legs numb, and fell into Geralt’s bunk. Fingers scrambled in the sheets, uncoordinated but seeking, and came to a stop when they found Geralt’s pillow. Eskel buried his face in and breathed in until his lungs burned. _Ascent._ So faint after a year away, but still there. Geralt had slept on this pillow, in this bunk, all of his childhood and then every winter for the last century. His presence was not so easily worn away.

Except it would now. _Wear away because_ he wasn’t coming back. The world had stolen Geralt. Not the Path, not some unnamed monster in the middle of nowhere, but the very same people he had rescued at the Battle for the Bridge over the Yaruga two years prior. Defended them against the unstoppable surge of Nilfgaard. They had stolen Geralt from Eskel.

 _Dead. Geralt was dead. Dead._ **_Dead._ **

Eskel roared in anguish.

***

Vesemir found Eskel in Geralt’s room several hours later. He wasn’t asleep, but staring at the ceiling, his face vacant and empty. The old Witcher walked slowly across the room, and Eskel was vaguely aware of Lambert hovering in the corridor. “We will light his pyre tomorrow,” he spoke carefully, “There wasn’t a body. No medallion. No one can really explain it, but… we will still do it in his honour. Is there anything that we can use instead?”

A long moment of silence passed, and Vesemir believed that Eskel was too far into his grief, but then he replied, “He has an old set of armour. Damaged from his first kill as a Witcher, never repaired. He kept it as a trophy. A reminder to survive at all costs.” His voice broke, and he turned his face away. 

“Very well. We’ll use that. Come down in an hour. You need to eat.”

Eskel didn’t go down to eat.

***

For the second year in a row, Eskel watched a pyre burn, but this time Geralt didn’t stand at his side. The black smoke coiled into the sky, and the smell of burning wood crowded Eskel’s senses. Nobody. _No medallion._ This was purely respect paid to Geralt’s memory, and it felt so very hollow. No closure. No proper goodbye.

A pressure began to build in the bottom of Eskel’s chest without warning. It crushed through his lungs and heart until every breath felt like a struggle. His head swam; his vision blurred. It shattered through his mutagens' barriers and crippled even the calm, trained voice in his mind that tried to guide him back towards stability. The same voice that kept him level even when an ekhidna or a wyvern roared in his face; it paled against the tidal wave of panic and pressure. And then his feet were moving towards the pyre. His hand outstretched as his vision blackened at the edges, like a horse in blinkers.

Lambert snatched him; first, fist balling in his cloak to yank him back and then a forearm around his waist, but his momentum was still carrying him until Vesemir swiped his feet out from under him. Together, they pinned him to the ground as he thrashed and roared, fingers clawing at the dirt to try and reach the flames; he couldn’t be here. Not on his own. _Not without Geralt._

Lambert and Vesemir wrestled with him until the fight evaporated and he lay panting under their combined weight. The urge had been impossible to resist. As the oxygen cleared his vision and his breathing evened out, he swallowed audibly.

“Are you done?” Vesemir growled, his hand placed on the back of Eskel’s head to keep him down. “Eskel, answer. Now. Are you done?” 

_More than you know._ “Yes.”

“When we stand, you’re going to walk with us back into Kaer Morhen. You will eat, and then you will go to sleep. Am I clear?”

“Yes.” 

Lambert rose first, placing himself between Eskel and the pyre, and then Vesemir pulled his charge from the floor. In a moment of paternal instinct, he wiped the gravel from Eskel’s shoulders and smoothed his hair back over his head. “Look at me,” he brooked no argument, and Eskel looked. “I’ve lost enough sons. Do you hear? Enough.” 

Eskel ate. Lambert sat with him.

***

“Where are you going?” Lambert stepped out into the courtyard, his hands planted on his hips.

“To clear the harpies,” Eskel replied flatly, shifting his sword belts around his chest, before wrapping his cloak over his shoulders.

“Hmm, alright, I’ll come with.”

“ _No._ ” Eskel looked at Lambert suddenly, his voice a low, metallic growl.

“Thought you might say that,” Lambert raised both eyebrows. “Suicide by a harpy. Original. Shit death though.” He paused, sniffed, and gazed around the crumbling walls of their home thoughtfully. His expression remained carefully blank - open - Lambert was particularly skilled at schooling his face. “Without you, it’ll just be the old man and me, and then I think _I’ll_ commit suicide by harpy within a few days. So, might as well get it over and done with now. Off we go then.” He walked by, heading out the gates, head tilted back as he took a deep breath of fresh air. “We could always go get our heads smashed in by ol’ Speartip. Y’know, like the rest of our classes.”

Eskel clenched his teeth and cursed the stupid, _pain in the ass_ _prick_ of a younger Witcher because he knew _exactly_ what he was doing. There was no way in all hell that Eskel would knowingly leave his brother to fight on his own. Lambert was placing himself in the way of Eskel’s demise, and the asshole was staring him directly in the eye while he did it, calling him out on his bullshit.

_He’s right. You’d be leaving him on his own._

He stared back at Kaer Morhen. His eyes falling onto Geralt’s window because it was his voice that murmured in the back of Eskel’s head now; chiding, impatient. The voice of reason even though its owner had passed on. _Stop being such a prick. Go, keep him safe._

Vesemir steadied the tankard of ale on his writing desk as it wobbled and vibrated. The very ground below the castle shuddered with the fury of the two young Witchers casting Aard within the mountains. “They’ll cause a fuckin’ avalanche if they’re not careful,” he informed the empty castle. In his mind, the ghosts of his peers and brothers grumbled their agreement; he allowed himself this private fantasy because sometimes it was still difficult to remember they were gone. “Have to go and dig them out.” His eyes flickered out the window as flames spilt from a cave mouth with all the ferocity of an erupting volcano. 

_They hadn’t nicknamed Eskel the Dragon of Kaer Morhen for nothing._


	6. Stay With Me (E)

The Path seemed like an eternal trudge stretching before Eskel, but he still left Kaer Morhen diligently as the snows melted and spring began. For several days, Lambert rode by his side before splitting off down a fork in the road with a final slap to Eskel’s back. “See you next winter, right?”

Eskel only grunted.

The first contract was easy enough. The wraith of a young woman murdered by her cuckolded husband. Yrden and some wraith oil dispatched her easily, and the pay was moderate. He then cleared up a handful of necrophage sites - nekkers, ghouls - and continued to head south. 

And then there was alcohol—a lot of it. So much in fact that Eskel woke up one morning with a legitimate hangover. His first one in over sixty years and _fuck_ did it hurt. He retched into the bushes next to his camp and then submerged himself in the icy water of the nearby river until his senses returned. Eskel continued, believing his direction was listless.

By the time he passed Moulderwood, and the Mahakham mountains loomed large to his right, he realised where his subconscious had guided him. _Rivia._ He stood on the hills overlooking the town, his expression vacant. _Why was he here? What had he come to achieve?_

The idea of joining Geralt on the other side had dissipated. He had responsibilities; to Vesemir; to Lambert; to his brotherhood. It also spat in the face of Geralt’s memory. _So why was he here?_

He urged Scorpion down the hillock and found a small copse of trees to camouflage him about two miles away. If this all went south, he didn’t want his only escape route cut down by an angry mob before he could get there; he could run two miles without bother. Cloak hood pulled over his head, sword hilts jutting out over his shoulders, he walked into the town. 

As dirt gave way to cobbles, he kept his head low and used his other senses to scope his surroundings. The prevailing smell of _shit_ was always a common thing for human settlements, but beneath that was the odour of fear, not of him. No one had really noticed an extra figure joining the bustle of the market square, but it simmered below the surface, pungent and rife. He saw non-human eyes glance across at him warily and even heard their hearts flutter when he walked by. They _knew_ what he was by scent and sight alone, but they weren’t scared _of_ him. They were scared _generally._

Eskel wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting to find. A town still on fire? Geralt’s blood on the cobblestones? His body hanging like a trophy from a balustrade? That might have been almost _better_ in some sick way. This was too normal. They were going around their daily business like this town hadn’t murdered one of the noblest men to have ever lived. _It was wrong._

Eskel examined the stalls, turning over items in his gloved hands curiously if only to occupy himself from the increasingly thunderous thoughts building in the back of his mind.

A street urchin spotted him making his rounds and identified him immediately as ‘from out of town’. Sword hilts, but soldiers were easy pickings if they were just passing through. The boy sidled up behind a statue and followed his mark until he drifted over to a stall a bit further out of the way, and then made his move. Low to the ground, barely a whisper of sound - or so he thought - he extended his hand towards the fold in his cloak that revealed the weight of a coin purse, only to have his wrist snatched in an iron grip.

Eskel turned to stare at his captive, one eyebrow raised and amber eyes stoic. This didn’t stop the boy gasping in horror, because of the scars twisting their way up the right side of his face - fairly standard, Eskel was used to it - but also the two cat-like oculars that blinked down at him. 

“Witcher! Fuck, it’s a Witcher!” The urchin shrieked, and Eskel was so surprised that he let him scramble away. The boy got about three paces before he fell onto his backside. “Someone help! It attacked me; it did!”

His left hand lifted, and he cast, “Axii. Calm down. I didn’t hurt you.” The boy’s face went slack, and his breathing evened out as his mind descended into peace. Unfortunately, Eskel had been spotted; his hand gesture; his quietly murmured word in a foreign tongue, and the stall owner cried out in horror.

“He’s bewitched him! Call the militia!” 

_Oh shit._

The crowd started gathering in the street, and Eskel’s right hand twitched at his side. _Don’t draw. Don’t escalate._ Murmurings of anger and consternation surrounded him; someone shouted, and then another, and suddenly Eskel was cursing his own fucking stupidity. He yanked his hood down, and several people gasped and took a step away from the ‘monstrous sight’ before them, giving him some breathing room. ‘Kill it before it takes our children’ was a particular _favourite_ of his, and he clenched his teeth as he searched for a quick exit.

The first stone caught him on the shoulder, and he growled, his upper lip quivering. They were closing in, and he could see the weapons in their hands as the voices grew louder, and more stones collided with his gambeson. 

_Why not?_ Death by Rivian was clearly the fucking trend these days. He lifted a hand and reached for his sword hilt.

“Eskel!” The sound of hooves drumming and the crowd scattered as Lambert ploughed through them on the back of his bay mare. Several onlookers were knocked to the floor as they rebounded off the side of the horse’s flanks, and Eskel had never been more pleased to see him. _Saving you from yourself again._ The horse surged past him, but he knew the drill and extended his hand to snatch the saddle and haul himself up behind his brother. 

Lambert sent armed guards careening out of the way with a well-timed Aard, and they escaped through the city gates before the portcullis could be lowered. “Due East, Scorpion’s in the trees.” A grunt and Lambert steered his horse away from the sun; Eskel rested his forehead against his brother’s back, allowing himself a moment to listen to the thunder of his heart in his ears.

***

The fire crackled as fat dropped from the remains of the rabbit between them. Lambert hadn’t said a word since they’d set up camp some ten miles away from Rivia, and Eskel hadn’t even tried to explain himself. The bottle of moonshine placed in his hand was cool against his skin, and it was enough to stir him from his reverie. “What were you doing in Rivia?”

“Why _thank you_ , Lambert, for saving my suicidal ass from murderous villagers. For preventing my beautiful mug from adorning the wall of the local drinking establishment. You’re my hero!” Lambert crooned in a high-pitched voice and sat down opposite, crossing his legs as he pulled the cork of his own bottle out with his teeth.

“I’m not suicidal,” Eskel grunted and downed a mouthful from his own bottle. _Shit, it burned._ “You still haven’t answered my question. You don’t usually come this far south until the summer.”

“Really? Coulda’ fooled me,” he paused. “Old man asked me to follow you for a while. Keep an eye and make sure you didn’t do anything stupid. Good job, really. Marching your unnatural ass into Rivia definitely qualifies as stupid.”

“He did fucking _what?_ ” 

Lambert shrugged again and considered the bottle in his hands. “He has never seen you lose your rag quite to that degree. You’re his golden boy. He’s worried.”

A rough sigh and Eskel dropped his face into his palm. “And you? You never follow his orders if you can help it.”

No reply. Lambert wasn’t looking at him. The silence dragged on, interrupted only by another enthusiastic snap from the fire. When Lambert spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “Why did _you_ come here? I knew where you were going as soon as you lined up with the mountains and rode ahead. Didn’t think you’d be that fucking stupid, but… there you go.”

“I don’t know,” Eskel pulled in a stuttering breath. “I just wanted to see. Don’t know _what_. I just… needed to see. _Something_.”

“Mmm. Wasn’t there though, was it?”

“No.” Eskel straightened and took another long draw from the moonshine. He kept drinking until his stomach gave a lurch of protest and his vision began to cloud. They sat like that until the fire became embers and the remaining meat from the rabbit had charred and fallen.

“So, wanna’ fuck?” Lambert kicked his legs out and sprawled on his side, lips tilted in a roguish smirk, and eyebrows twitching up.

Eskel sighed in exasperation and uncurled to his feet. “Really? Do you want to do that now? Ten miles outside a hostile town and half-cut on moonshine?” It wouldn’t be the first time. Probably not the last. The only time Lambert’s mouth was ever put to good use was when he was on his knees in front of Eskel, and even then sometimes he didn’t shut up. It took a special level of impertinence to make wisecracks when you were full of someone’s cock, or _try to at least_. “Pass. Not in the mood.”

“Why not? S’been a year, and after all this bullshit that’s been going on, even whores aren’t taking a Witcher’s money at the moment,” Lambert scowled as Eskel turned his back and staggered to his feet. “Oh, come on. Let me see the dragon of Kaer Morhen. Whip it out. You can do whatever you want, you can even,” he paused, thought of something and then didn’t fully evaluate it before it fell out his mouth, “fuck, you can pretend I’m Geralt if you keep your eyes closed.”

Eskel didn’t mean to hit him. And definitely not hard enough to drive him down onto his knees. _It just happened._ He hauled Lambert from the floor and shoved him against the broad trunk of a tree, hard enough to knock the air from his lungs before his senses even came back. Eskel sucked in air through gritted teeth, his face twisted in a feral snarl, willing his self-control back into place.

It was always the eyes that gave Lambert away. His face he could school, but his _eyes_ he could not. That’s why he didn’t make eye contact when he was covering something with attitude, and why he hadn’t looked directly at Eskel at all since they’d set up. He looked now though, his feet pushing against the floor and his fingers biting into the bark behind him; not fighting, not defending himself, just waiting. The bruise on his jaw was already blooming and swelling, and the blood dripped down his chin from the split lip. Eskel could see _it_ there as if a mage had walked into Lambert’s oculars and carefully spelt it out in elegant calligraphy against the background of amber.

_Angry. Empty. Numb. All at the same time, and not sure how to deal with any of it._

Purging harpies from Kaer Morhen hadn’t helped; drinking hadn’t helped; walking the Path hadn’t helped. Lambert had done each one as Eskel had, and it’d proven just as ineffective for him too. Lambert would have said anything to get Eskel to look at him, to touch him, even if the only physical contact he received was a beating. He could deal with physical pain, but not the… _other_ type, and so had decided Eskel was going to do one of two things: beat him, or fuck him. And he didn’t care which. 

“I’m sorry,” Eskel’s fists loosened in Lambert’s shirt, and instead he slipped his hands around his head and brought it to his chest. “I’m sorry, I didn’t-- I’m sorry.” Eskel just kept repeating it like it was a liturgy and Lambert buried his face against the crook of his neck. Quiet, scenting huffs were replaced with chapped lips against Eskel’s throat, and suddenly he just couldn’t push him away. “Still…?”

“Yeah,” Lambert pulled away, and slumped back against the tree again, his own hands now curled in Eskel’s shirt. “I just need to lose my mind for a bit. And you’re pretty good at helping me do that. You just… always seem to know what to do.” Grated out as Lambert looked off to the left. He meant it in more ways than just this one, but Eskel spared him any more perceived embarrassment by kissing him lightly, lapping at the split in his lip in one final apology. One large hand coaxed Lambert’s head to the side, and his lips traced down to the hollow of his throat.

Lambert was pliable and receptive, and when Eskel dropped a hand beneath the waistband of his trousers, his palm found him already semi-hard from the gentle contact alone. “Hand only. Not sure I’ve got anything else in me.”

“No,” Lambert swallowed thickly, briefly unable to verbalise, and so grabbed Eskel’s other hand and placed it on his leather-clad backside, “full service, please. Don’t forget the oil either. Could do without getting torn in half by the dragon.”

“You’re a cheeky, demanding little shit.” Eskel rumbled into his neck as he pulled him away from the tree and backed him towards their bedrolls, pushing him down onto one and briefly ducking away to rummage for the oil he kept at the bottom of his bag.

“Nothin’ little about me though, is there?” Lambert smirked as he sprawled back on his elbows, glancing down at his shaft, now erect and proud as it stood out from beneath the hem of his shirt. He tilted his head back as Eskel dropped down behind him. “Granted. Not quite the heat you’re packing, but I think they gave you an extra mutagen.” He grunted as Eskel wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hauled him backwards until he sat between his legs, back to chest. “Well, this is intimate. Thought I was getting the full ser--, _fuck…”_

A slick hand swept down to the base of his cock and Lambert bucked into it needily, head pushing back against the broad shoulder behind him. “Mmm.” He may have joked, but this, _this_ was better than having the shit beaten out of him. Sprawled across Eskel’s chest, his thighs either side and his big arm across his chest, with his only focus being Lambert’s pleasure; Lambert felt… fuck, _he felt safe and valued_. Not that he would ever voice it in a _million_ lifetimes. Fucking Eskel and his… way of being.

“No jokes? How’s my form?” Eskel couldn’t help the smile that split across his face, the edge of his lips pressed lightly to the side of Lambert’s head as his hand worked with firm, easy glides from base to tip, occasionally twisting and adjusting his grip to vary the sensation. He kept one arm around Lambert’s chest to keep him pulled close, and their faces flush.

“Just shut up and work. You marked my lovely face, my main selling point,” his voice was less assured, and Eskel could hear the tremor of enjoyment beneath the sarcasm, “so it’s the least you can do.” 

Lambert didn’t make much noise - outside the shit-talking - so Eskel knew he had to pay attention. He was all breathy pants, occasional whimpers, shivers and building temperature as he got further along. Eskel tilted his head, enjoying the prickle of Lambert’s stubble over the more sensitive scarring on his face and the feel of his thick length against his palm, twitching and responsive. Giving any form of pleasure made him feel good, and Eskel felt his own tension melt away as rapidly as the clenched knots in Lambert’s shoulders. His thumb pushed over his head and massaged over the slit, smearing beads of precum back down his shaft with the oil; Lambert's cock pulsed in his hand, and Eskel could feel the muscles in his lower back bunching against him. “You’re close.”

“Yes…”

“Spread your legs. Touch yourself as you like it.” In no other situation was Lambert ever so obedient without a liberal helping of snark, but now he lifted his hand away from where it had been gripping Eskel’s trousers to his shaft instantly. Eskel’s attentions didn’t leave him; instead, they slid down the crease of his thigh inside the front of his braies and squeezed his balls softly. Two fingers pushed down beneath them towards his entrance, the pressure firm and earning a quiet whimper. Lambert canted his hips eagerly, and Eskel nudged his jaw with the side of his head. “You’re so much more tolerable like this.”

“Have to… do it more… of-f-fuck, _Eskel_ ,” Lambert grated out, teeth lightly grazing against Eskel’s neck in warning. Those two exploratory fingers were massaging around his entrance in languid circles, fingertips occasionally dipping just inside the ring of muscle to tease tender skin. Lambert’s hand stuttered as he balanced on the brink, so Eskel slipped his other arm down to fold over the top of it to help, Lambert’s not-too-narrow shoulders squeezed between his biceps until Lambert hit his peak with a startled gasp. He shook against Eskel, who continued to work him through it, milking every last shuddering aftershock until Lambert mewled a quiet request for him to stop. Panting and satiated, Lambert slumped and closed his eyes, sparks still prickling their way through his hips and ass. “You made me come on my trousers.” Mumbled. Barely sentient.

“Yeah, happens.”

“Would you give a contract to a Witcher with come on his trousers? No. I’m gonna’ have to wash them now. _Fuck…_ I hate laundry.”

“You haven’t even finished the aftercare phase yet, and you’re already complaining. I am… actually, no I’m not surprised.” Eskel sighed and rubbed his face against Lambert’s again, eyes slipping closed at the familiar rub of that stubble he liked so much, and then he went to stand and clean off.

“No,” Lambert startled suddenly, and Eskel froze. “Can you, uh… can you stay with me like this? Maybe for the night too? Just, you know, don’t want to get caught by some villagers with my dick in my hand, literally.”

Eskel sat back down slowly and leaned against the pack behind him; he saw through the bravado to the request for affection. “Yeah, alright.” He wrapped his arms around Lambert’s chest again and pulled him back into the embrace. The younger Witcher settled and stared at the stars through the canopy above them without another word.

They ended up sleeping in the same position and leaving together the following morning. Eskel helped Lambert clean his trousers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter written to the tune of and titled after "Stay With Me" by Sam Smith.


	7. Rescue Me

“This has to be a mistake,” Jaskier read through the intelligence report in his hands a third time. By this point, his eyes were swimming, and he was struggling to make out the words. “You do realise his title was ‘of Rivia’. The queen _knighted_ him for his services during the war. He was a _knight_. You know, _Sir_ Geralt of Rivia.”

The Redanian official shrugged, his chainmail rattling against the metal pauldrons and gauntlets on his arms and shoulders. “You’re welcome to confirm it independently, but we’ve already had the same message from three different sources. This whole thing is getting out of hand. It’s threatening trade, particularly with the dwarven settlements in the Mahakham mountains. We need to redirect your efforts to--.”

“No, no… you need to just, just _wait,_ ” Jaskier stood from the table and paced around the tiny room; they’d met in Oxenfurt for ease and chosen one of the seedier taverns in the outskirts of the town. The room barely passed as a store cupboard, but it was enough for their needs. “And you’re sure he wasn’t recovered? There was no cor--.” He couldn’t say it and turned his back on the soldier; his hand lifted to his mouth as his lips began to quiver, his heart threatening to stutter out of his chest.

“There was no corpse. Not him. Not the sorceress. Just a whole lot of blood, and all the other dead. There was a report of an unnatural magical disturbance, seemed just to consume them,” he shifted uncomfortably. “Look, if this is--, I can leave your orders with--.”

“Yes. Do that. Go.”

At some point, Jaskier made it to his temporary rooms at the university. They put him up when they had space in exchange for a few guest lectures; a fair trade as long as he didn’t get side-tracked by his other ‘projects’. Night fell, and he was still standing in the middle of the room with his satchel at his feet, unmoving and shrouded in darkness. 

Generally, Jaskier was an emotional creature. When Geralt cast him aside, his complete and utter self-destruction was proof that he _felt_ everything so very thoroughly that it sometimes threatened to tear him asunder. So why did he feel so very numb now? Why was the world suddenly muted? Where were his tears? Where were his wails of anguish? 

Why couldn’t he _cry_? 

The world was suddenly unfamiliar; even this room full of his belongings felt like an alien landscape in which he did not belong. Like _his_ world had shifted, but everyone else’s _hadn’t._ The idea that Geralt was no longer _here_ was so thoroughly earth-shattering that Jaskier’s mind could not process it. It was impossible. 

Where were the streets of mourners to mark Geralt’s passing? Where was the hellfire and the brimstone to herald the end of days? Why were the monsters not rampaging through civilisation without Geralt there to protect it? _Why did the world continue to exist?_

There had been so much to say. So many things that Jaskier wanted to shout and scream at him - one day, _one day_ he would have - but now he never could. The loss that he’d somehow convinced himself was temporary - _could_ be temporary - was now rendered permanent. Geralt - noble, just, powerful, eternal - was gone. Consumed by the very people, he sacrificed himself for, time and again, to protect; his body, soul, and life. The same people Jaskier had tried to convince of his virtues. Had the songs faded so easily from their memories?

Perhaps if Jaskier had weathered the storm of Geralt’s fury and persisted in following him, hadn’t he followed him through worse? The songs would have continued. Spread further. Enriched the legend and then they would have seen the _man_ , not the _mutant;_ the _hero,_ not the _Witcher._ Perhaps if Jaskier had just _been stronger_ he might have been able to do something, and… _what, bard?_ What could you have done? You inconvenienced him under the pretence of spreading his legend, only for the songs to fade into insignificance; only for him to be murdered anyway. 

What had he really done for Geralt of Rivia? 

_Nothing._

Jaskier looked at his lute where it reclined next to the bed and surged across the room to seize it in shaking hands. His fingers tightened around the fretboard, and his nails bit into the curves of its body until his shoulders were quivering with the pressure of it. The first time, he smashed it to the floor with such ferocity the fretboard snapped; the second time cracked the body and the strings broke free and lashed deep, thin lines across the back of his right wrist; he kept going until it disintegrated into pitiful fragments, and he stood there panting and shivering in the silence.

Perhaps if Jaskier hadn’t spent _five years_ feeling sorry for himself and marched up to that damn fucking castle and demanded his apology, or cornered him in a tavern and sat on him. He would have been at Geralt’s side, and then even if the people of Rivia had set upon them, shrieking like banshees and baying for blood, Jaskier would have fallen too. 

_He wouldn’t still be here, in a world without Geralt._

Days went by. A week. A month. A season.

He didn’t notice the letters arrive from the intelligence office and turned all visitors away. Food tasted like ash in his mouth, and so he pushed that away as well. The tumbler of spirit found his hand at some point - he wasn’t sure when - but it was there, and the sharp, acidic burn of the alcohol slid its way down his throat and melted through his thoughts until everything was a dull haze. 

The letter opener had become a fixture in his other hand too. Twirled around his fingers and its sharp edge repeatedly inspected. In bad moments he found himself clenching it, fist shuddering until a deep claret oozed from his palm onto the desk. The stab of pain brought him back to himself. It cut through the numbness and brought moments of clarity outside the fog of his grief. During one such moment, he spotted the journal jutting from his satchel, and he left the desk to retrieve it.

_Should burn it. What use was it to anyone now?_

Returning with it to the desk, he reached for the candle nearby but paused when his eyes alighted upon the most recent entry. Notes and rhymes about a basilisk, a girl and a Witcher. A Witcher in red with a messy crop of black hair, and a soul that brightened even the bleakest darkness. His heart suddenly leapt into his throat, and he placed the candle down heavily on the desk. Shaking fingers encircled the loose sheets of paper to cradle them close, blood smearing across the edges from his palm. 

In the depths of his own selfish grief, he'd forgotten. There was one other who would be suffering as he was. A man with warm amber eyes and a bashful smile, currently walking the Path on his own, or perhaps he too had…? 

Jaskier dashed towards the pile of intelligence reports and snatched them from the floor. Letter opener wiped briefly on the sleeve of his doublet, he opened them one by one, scanning carefully for mention of casualties. Every eyewitness statement, every list of figures and official report. It took him three hours, but he had triple checked everything. No mention of Eskel. He looked to his journal notes and rested his hand over that first precious story, and for the first time since hearing of Geralt's murder, he suddenly felt anchored to the shore.

***

Destiny was a fickle bitch. 

Sometimes she did things like give you a child surprise born under the black sun, or snatch your best friend away without leaving even a body to mourn. Still, sometimes she pulled together two people at precisely the right time when they both needed exactly what the other could freely give.

When Eskel started riding north, he knew it would be a long shot. He'd met Jaskier most of the times it had been in the southernmost towns, but some unexplained instinct drove him up through Temeria towards Redania, with only two stops to complete contracts. The rest of the time, he grabbed a bottle of something strong and drank in the wilderness until he fell asleep. Scorpion did well, but by the time they walked through the gates of Oxenfurt, Eskel was leading him by the reins, and both of them had seen better days. 

They didn't get far before Eskel spotted Jaskier in the crowd. His eyes zoned in on him as if guided by some unseen force, and Eskel stopped abruptly. The bard looked thin, _grey_ even; his complexion washed out, and the fresh nicks on his chin spoke of only a recent shave; so frail. As if he sensed the weight of Eskel's gaze, Jaskier froze mid-stride and looked up from the cobblestones he'd been so astutely observing.

Eskel saw the moment of recognition and offered a small wave in greeting. He didn't expect the flood of relief that poured out over Jaskier's face like a breaking dam, or the ferocious embrace he received when the bard sprinted forward the final few meters. Jaskier buried his face in Eskel's chest despite his armour's hard edges and latched his arms around his waist. "I'm so sorry, Eskel. I'm so, so sorry." 

The tears erupted violently down Jaskier's face, and he clung to the Witcher like a buoy in the centre of a stormy ocean. These were not dignified sobs. They were ugly, harrowed ones that clawed their way from the mire of his soul. Eskel lifted his arms without hesitation and encircled the narrower shoulders that quaked against him, his eyes flickering to sporadic faces in the crowd as if daring them to interrupt. 

They stood there for what felt like an eternity, but Jaskier just couldn't stop. The grief had been so consuming, barricaded inside a bastion of numb horror and denial, but now it rampaged forth into the world, and he just wanted it all gone…

Trembling sobs faded into quiet sniffles and a single hiccup, and he finally pulled himself away to look up into the Witcher's face. Eskel looked tired and unkempt; his face was covered in the fuzz of an untidy beard, and his eyes were dulled with exhaustion, but that didn't mute the concern. "I can smell old blood, Jaskier. Are you hurt?"

The bard let out a barked laugh, and then immediately apologised at the confused look he received. "Oh, I'm sorry, I - I cut my hand, it's nothing serious, I…" He wanted so badly to touch that handsome face, with its endearing flutter of relief, and his better hand even lifted briefly before he wrestled it under control. Jaskier took a step back, rubbing his cuffs over his face to try and clear away some of the tear tracks. His chest felt so much lighter; his head was clearer than it had in days. "What are you doing in Oxenfurt? I wasn't aware of any contracts."

Eskel pursed his lips and glanced at the floor. "I, umm," he paused and distracted himself briefly as Scorpion nudged impatiently at his shoulder. His horse didn't like crowds either. "I came to see you. To see how you were."

At that moment, you could have bowled Jaskier over with a feather, and he stared open-mouthed. In the depths of his own grief, no doubt, Eskel had thought of Jaskier. This Witcher, as powerful and majestic as Geralt himself, had ridden into Redania to see him. Was it in search of kindred in grief? Born out of care? Was it..? _It didn't matter._ He was here just when Jaskier needed him more than air. 

He must have been staring for too long because Eskel cleared his throat and lifted a hand to the right side of his face; endearing, gentle, self-conscious. "If you're busy, I can leave. I didn't mean to interrupt."

That snapped Jaskier out of it, and he spluttered. "Gods, no, dear heart, I - I'm just so relieved to see you. I was worried that maybe you had…" He trailed off. "You look exhausted. Come back with me, you can have a bath, something to eat and we can - we can talk."

Eskel nodded and followed Jaskier to the university. 

***

Watching - or rather desperately trying not to watch - Eskel bathe was a real test of Jaskier's mental and emotional fortitude. A fortitude that just wasn't there at the moment. So when Eskel sank gratefully into the water with a low growl of appreciation, limbs splayed out over the edges, Jaskier couldn't help but look. The Witcher tilted his head back and closed his eyes, and Jaskier just _looked more._

Wide eyes sweeping over shoulders and chest carved from marble; a beautiful, bronze marble gifted to humanity by the damn gods. Even Eskel's forearms were a piece of art, dusted with a light layer of dark hair and leading to those big hands, made as much for holding fragile things as wielding a sword. _Offer to help._ No, no. Jaskier put it down to wanting to feel something other than numb cold. He'd felt the heat rolling off the Witcher in the street, and it'd been like curling up beside a warm fireplace. 

"Can you bring my shaving kit over? It's in the grey bag, front pocket." Eskel's deep voice cut through the quiet as the water sloshed with his movements, and Jaskier startled into action. He passed the requested items down to Eskel and tried not to - _sweet Melitele above, and it wasn't even hard, fuck._ Jaskier looked at the floor. It was because he was feeling fragile; he assured himself. This wasn't. _This_ wasn't.

"Fuck," Eskel pawed through his kit and then rubbed his eyes when Jaskier looked at him in question, he sighed. "No mirror. Must have left it at Kaer Morhen." Along with his hunting knife, spare gloves, and a shopping list of other items his scrambled mind hadn't remembered. "Can I borrow yours?"

"Uh, I don't have one, I'm afraid. Not for the last couple of years, actually. The university has shared bathrooms for the most part, and I usually just use the ones in taverns," he paused, hesitant. "I could… do it for you?"

Eskel gazed down at the tools, and then across to Jaskier's hands. He didn't let anyone shave him. Never even visited a barber. Not since receiving the injury to his face. The chance of getting accidentally nicked across one of the scars was a discomfort he could do without. But those careful hands, steady and dextrous, had sewn up the wound in his shoulder with finesse and confidence. Jaskier would not hurt him. "Yes, thank you."

The bard let out a long breath and took the razor from Eskel's hand. He watched Eskel lather up his face and shuffled forward when the Witcher leaned back. Tentative fingers rested on Eskel's collarbone, and Jaskier swallowed. There was something far too vulnerable about a Witcher baring their throat like this; trusting and relaxed. It twisted that now very familiar feeling in Jaskier's chest. A feeling that kept reappearing in Eskel's presence. He took another deep breath before sweeping the razor up Eskel's throat, clearing the first of the plentiful dark hair from bronze skin.

It was possibly the most intimate thing Jaskier had ever done in his life, and he'd done so, _s_ o many with a staggering number of people. None had matched this. Every time he leaned forward to wash the blade in the water, he felt Eskel's breath on his neck and face, and it set his heart off-kilter; he could feel that intense, unrelenting heat rolling from the Witcher's skin beneath his palm, and he kept catching glimpses of those golden eyes, deep and sedate. When it came time to do Eskel's right side, the Witcher tilted his head, but Jaskier could see the apprehension ripple across his shoulders, and he suddenly realised just how much trust had been placed in his hands. It almost brought tears back to his eyes. _Fragile, just feeling fragile._

Jaskier carefully worked around the scars with slow tenderness, wicking away the varying lengths of stubble and beard that still managed to grow around damaged skin. The tension melted from Eskel's shoulders as he realised he was in safe hands and it was so, so difficult not to stroke a hand through his hair in acknowledgement. "There, all done. Back to your usual dashing self."

"Mm, don't look good with a beard?" Eskel sat up and shuffled back in the tub, snagging the washcloth from the edge and dipping it into the water. It obscured Eskel's front, and lap as the bard stood. He was both disappointed and grateful at the same time; any more and he was pretty certain he'd start drooling.

Jaskier, worried about having offended, smiled at the amusement in Eskel's tone. "It hides your jawline. Only seen a jaw like that on one other man." A hand alighted on Eskel's back, and when it withdrew his fingers gave the lightest caress. It was a mere flutter, but Eskel's gaze flickered across to watch Jaskier retreat. The knot in his stomach suddenly manifested into more than just a partial hardness between his legs, and he closed his eyes. Shaving was not meant to be an arousing act. _This was obscene_. Eskel glanced down into his lap, thankful that the bard's back was turned, and squeezed his balls firmly, thinking of old Witchers in the springs in Kaer Morhen, until everything was back under control. 

"I'm just going to get you some food and beer. Won't be long," Jaskier flashed a small, toothy smile over his shoulder and disappeared into the corridor. Eskel flopped back into the bath and rubbed a hand over his face. _It was even a good fucking shave._

***

Jaskier arrived back with food to find Eskel dressed and standing at his desk. He had the letter opener in his hand, and Jaskier slowed, placing the tray down on the foot of the bed. The Witcher was turning the tool over in his fingers - still rusted and coated in old blood - and looking thoughtful. The journal pages containing Eskel's story, also anointed with Jaskier's bloody fingerprints, had been tugged loose. The mostly empty bottle of spirit, the shattered lute piled in the corner of the room; it all painted a rather bleak and pitiful picture. Jaskier stood with his hands clasped in front of his chest, inspecting his fingernails while trying to snatch glimpses of Eskel's expression.

The Witcher tapped the letter opener against his own palm and tilted his head back with a deep sigh. "Travel with me."

Jaskier blinked. "W-what?"

"Come walk the Path with me," Eskel's eyes focused only on Jaskier. "We'll leave tomorrow."

"Eskel, I - I have… things, I -," Jaskier gestured grandly around the room and then caught sight of his bandaged palm. Yes, he had things to do. Self-pity to wallow in; grief to worry away at; loneliness to drown in. He looked at the Witcher then, with his deep amber eyes, his strong hands that had turned over the evidence of Jaskier's pain, and his warm soul that had decided it now had to end, and… "Yes. Yes, I would like that."


	8. Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Eskel and Geralt start their training, find each other and share their first kiss.

_1172: Kaer Morhen_

It was so cold. That was all Eskel could think about as they stood in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen. Rows and rows of boys on the cusp of becoming young men around him. He clenched his jaw, so he didn’t shiver; so he didn’t show weakness. Weakness was fatal here. The instructor, with his yellow eyes and grizzled face, bellowed out over their heads.

“This marks the first day of the rest of your miserable lives,” he snarled; his lips so twisted by the scars wrapped up from his neck that spittle left with every syllable. “Most of you won’t survive. The weak, the undeserving, will die in training, or during the Trials. Only the strongest will pass. From this point on, I am your king, your lord. I am the tyrant of your waking hours and your nightmares.” He paced down the line, and Eskel watched boys cower before him. They turned their eyes down to the floor - submission, reverence - and he dismissed each as if they were no more than flies buzzing at a horse’s ass.

They all cowered. All except one. A tall boy - as tall as Eskel, easily - with dark brown hair and blazing green eyes. His chin remained jutted high, shoulders squared and fists clenched at his sides. The instructor stopped before him now, eyes boring into his when he did not flinch. “Are you not scared of me, boy?”

The boy focused on the instructor’s face, unflinching, and his lips flickered in the faintest of smirks. “Seen scarier curs in the villages at the foot of the mountain, _Theo._ ” There was a quiet wave of nervous laughter from those around them. Theo turned back to the audience of Witchers on the balcony above; they always turned out to eye the recruits. The more macabre took the opportunity to place wagers on which boys would survive. It was Vesemir that Theo sought, and said Witcher inclined his head only subtly when Theo caught his eye. The instructor turned back to the boy and punched him in the gut with such force that he buckled to the ground.

Theo leaned forward, and Eskel was just close enough to pick out his words. “You’ll regret that, Geralt.” Geralt looked up from the floor, snarled in the face of fear, and rose stiffly to his feet as the instructor walked away barking orders.

Eskel was in love.

***

“You’re Geralt, right?” Eskel sat down on the bench opposite in the Grand Hall and pulled a tankard of watered-down ale towards him. “I’m Eskel.”

Geralt looked up from his food, and the intensity of those emerald eyes immediately struck Eskel. They pierced down to the very soul, and even his twelve-year-old self could see the sparkle of destiny. Or so he thought. Maybe it was just the sunset spilling in through the windows. “Good to meet you. Hey, I think I saw you at training today. Nice footwork, really gave Leon the runaround.” 

Eskel’s heart swelled with pride. He’d seen Geralt too. Obviously. Watching Geralt was pretty much the only reason he ever got bested in a sparring match. Geralt was awe-inspiring. “Yeah, you too. Do you… do you want to pair up tomorrow? For drills? I want you to show me how you do that backwards counter. I’d just get stabbed in the ass if I tried it myself.”

“Alright, yeah. Pass me the pork?”

***

_1174: Kaer Morhen_

The Choice was gruelling, but no mutagens yet. Eskel wasn't looking forward to that bit anyway. They were being fashioned into soldiers before undergoing the mutations; swordwork, balance, physical conditioning and discipline. Every day Eskel paired with Geralt, and they became inseparable. Eskel learned that Geralt had been surrendered as a babe, which explained why he knew all the instructors by name. Time in the yard with Geralt was always fun; even when they were bloodied and bruised; even when the instructors beat the ever-loving shit out of both of them, they returned to the halls of Kaer Morhen with their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, laughing.

They spent a lot of time in Kaer Morhen’s library. “A lot of being a Witcher is about knowledge, Eskel,” Geralt murmured. “The ones that survive the longest are the ones that know the most. Not the biggest and the badest. I mean, I bet old Vesemir is going to live for-fuckin’-ever. _Know thine enemy._ ”

So they read. _A lot._ Especially in the winter months when the winds howled around halls, and Geralt climbed into Eskel’s bunk, wrapping them in two woollen blankets with the fire blazing nearby. Eskel always propped the book open while Geralt rested against his chest and they read together, with Geralt’s head tucked under his chin. When the instructors barked questions in their faces, they could always give them the correct answers. Eskel wasn’t sure whether that pleased the Witchers or pissed them off. 

Now and then, Eskel would come across a book in the library that was different from the others; an adventure story, or a poetry book, and he’d read those too in his spare time. A few months after his fourteenth birthday, he came across a genre he had never encountered before. A romance novel. Old, battered, but never used by any of the other initiates. _Knowledge is power, Eskel._ So he read the first three chapters, got thoroughly embarrassed by its content, and buried it at the back of a shelf to forget about. He returned the next day to finish it when they were meant to be reading a treatise on basilisks.

The kiss sounded nice. A lot of it sounded _very_ nice, but he couldn’t really figure out any of the logistics beneath the flowery prose. The kiss, though. He could picture that in his mind’s eye, and there was only one set of lips he wanted.

“Geralt, can we read something different?” He shifted under the blankets, lowering the book facedown on Geralt’s chest. “I, uh… and don’t take the piss, alright?”

“I’d never take the piss out of you, Eskel. Not unless you fall face down in the stable again, because that was fuckin’ hilarious.”

“Oh, fuck off, no… look,” he put the tome on forktails aside and plucked the battered novel from below his bunk with a little bit of wriggling. Once Geralt was comfortably back in place, he flicked the book open to the section he'd earmarked and placed his thumb at the top of the page. They read together in silence, with Eskel’s heart thundering away in his ears. He could see the smile on Geralt’s face as it unfurled, and his arms folded. 

“What do you think?” Eskel asked, guarded. 

“She seemed to like it quite a lot,” he reached up to take the book, but Eskel chucked it out of reach. “So, what does he do next?”

“I’m… to be honest, I’m not really sure. The description is a bit weird, but… uh, I’d like to… see whether it’s as good as this writer seems to think. The kiss, that is,” he paused, and the silence dragged; Geralt was going to make him spell it out because he was a world-class bell-end. “I want to kiss you, Geralt. Up for it?” His bravado didn’t quite match the flush of heat surging up his torso.

“Yeah, I think so,” Geralt twisted around under the blanket, shimmying until his shoulders were covered, and then rested to Eskel’s left with their faces level. “How do we start?”

“Uh…” Eskel couldn’t speak because his eyes were entranced by the two emerald jewels staring at him, rendered soft in the firelight. He leaned forward tentatively and pressed his mouth to Geralt’s lower lip, feeling the soft skin slip only partially between his before he drew away. “Like that?”

“He used his tongue in the book,” Geralt raised a brow. _Everyone’s a critic._ But rather than wait for Eskel again, he leaned forward and pressed their mouths together. It was sloppy and wet, but so, so _right,_ and Eskel thought his head was going to explode when Geralt lapped into his mouth, exploring his own tongue with enthusiastic interest. By the time they drew apart, they were gasping for air, and Geralt flopped to the side on his front. “Is there a… knack to breathing… during it, or…?”

“Dunno,” Eskel slumped back, “Maybe we should practice? Theo says you need to drill something a thousand times, and then a thousand times more, before you can call yourself a master, right?”

“I like that idea.” Geralt looked flushed; his lips swollen, his hair ruffled and his pupils wide. He liked the idea of kissing Eskel again _very much_.

They practised a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Irina for the idea. They requested flashbacks to their childhood, and here is the first.


	9. You Are The Reason

Eskel blinked into the pale blue sky above him and heaved a sigh. The birds' quiet twitter in the trees accompanied by the soft, sleepy snuffles of his travelling companion brought him gently back to the present. He sat up from his bedroll slowly and allowed his cloak to pool around his waist; the novel he’d fallen asleep reading in the moonlight flopped closed to his left. The battered, dog-eared cover was as familiar to him as the back of his own hands, and he rested his palm over it in reverent silence. The words were less opaque to him in his older years, and some of the lewd turns-of-phrase made him chuckle, but there was really only one passage he was interested in anyway.

He glanced across to his companion and smiled quietly at the peacefully vacant look on his face. It was so unusual to wake up with someone else nearby. The first couple of nights he’d been unable to sleep; firstly because he could _hear_ Jaskier’s heartbeat. It wasn’t disturbing as such, but it held an irresistible note that Eskel listened to into the early hours, sometimes even until the sun rose. _And then_ , once he’d convinced his brain that it was fine to only listen to it for an hour or so because it wasn’t going anywhere, every noise in the surrounding woodland made him sit up and reach for his sword. Not because he was worried for his own safety, or because those noises were any _different_ to what they had always been, but because he was suddenly infinitely more… _protective._ Neither of these issues was particularly conducive for focus and clarity when hunting. 

Reading into the night was a happy medium, and kept him distracted enough from Jaskier to fall asleep. Scorpion nickered and lowered his nose to nudge at Eskel’s shoulder; the Witcher patted him on the side of the face. “Morning,” his voice barely above a whisper. “Just going to get some food. Keep an eye on the camp, would you?” He shoved the book into the depths of his bag and pulled out a roll of netting before heading to the river. It took him half an hour to net two trout; more than adequate for a quick breakfast alongside some of the bread they’d picked up at the previous town. 

Only once the fish were crisping up nicely over the fire, seasoned with a dash of salt and some herbs, did the bard stir. “Mmm, that smells absolutely divine.”

“Simple fare for a simple man, I’m afraid, but the fish are quite nice around here. The water isn’t brackish.” Eskel checked the eyes were white, and then gave one a prod with his knife, before tipping it into Jaskier’s ration tin and passing it over.

“Lovely, thank you,” Jaskier propped himself up and left his breakfast to cool while he inspected the Witcher that sat across from him. It was good to see him looking fresher this morning; Jaskier had noticed his restlessness at night, and when queried, he’d been told - openly and truthfully - that Eskel was adjusting to having someone else nearby. Such honesty had been a bit of a shock. Eskel surprised him every day, and Jaskier just… bloody hell, _he just became more enamoured._

There were so many differences, little and big, to travelling with Geralt. Eskel insisted that Jaskier ride Scorpion at least some of the time for starters. The horse hadn’t been thrilled, but Eskel calmly acquainted them, pressing an apple into Jaskier’s hand and bringing the bard close to make his offering. Scorpion, with only a small snort of disdain, accepted. The conversation was also bountiful and varied; Eskel’s favourite topic was literature, and he grilled Jaskier endlessly for his thoughts on certain poets and authors. The post-hunt stories were also detailed, and sometimes Jaskier even teased him for heading off on a tangent about the properties of a particular oil or bomb, “I will be sure to add a verse about the degenerative impact of a moondust bomb on a werewolf’s reflexes.” Eskel laughed at that one and then insisted on hearing it later.

They ate their breakfast now in companionable silence, and then Jaskier sat out of the way while Eskel replaced Scorpion’s tack and lashed their bags in place. The Witcher looked over to see the bard strumming at the air; his eyes closed as he noiselessly mouthed words to a song. _Composing again._ But no good without an instrument to practice on. Eskel’s mind drifted back to the pile of debris he’d discovered in Jaskier’s university quarters and the trail of self-destruction that followed.

“Come on, Jaskier. Up. I want to be in Maribor by sunset.” 

The bard smiled and hopped up into Scorpion’s saddle. They headed south. 

As time progressed, their conversation inevitably wandered over to the topic that sat between them like a giant lead weight, but they chose not to address his death because it still felt like an open wound. Instead, they swapped ‘war stories’. _Yes, because knowing and loving Geralt was sometimes like marching into battle; their heart their weapon, and their soul their shield._

“He tried to get them to release me and just kill him, you know,” Jaskier murmured. “That’s the moment I realised that I… well. I think that was the moment I realised I was going to follow him forever. And then all of about three more days to become infatuated.”

Eskel hummed. “He has a way of doing that. When you think he doesn’t care, or that you’re just an irritant, he does something so loyal, generous or loving that your head wants to explode, and you realise he was just… struggling to find the words.” He trailed off. Jaskier noted the use of the word ‘loving’, and the painfully sweet use of the present tense. It slipped out easily, almost breathlessly, and his hunch solidified into a certainty. Their conversations had been so open, so free-flowing, that Jaskier didn’t even think of the gravity of what he was about to ask before he leapt straight in.

“How long did it take before you realised you loved him?”

The Witcher drew Scorpion to a slow, contemplative stop. He said nothing for a long while, gazed off into the surrounding copse, and Jaskier was worried for a horrifying moment that he’d stepped over the line; a line he should have _known_ was there, but here he was pole-vaulting his way into people’s hearts like he owned the place. Again. _Fuck, fuck._ Then Eskel answered, “The first day.” He turned his head to look up at Jaskier for the briefest moment. “And I never stopped.” A click of the tongue and Scorpion walked on obediently.

Jaskier sat there in stunned silence, trying not to stare down at the back of Eskel’s head, but finding the allure irresistible. It was too much to ask whether Geralt returned that love. The answer would be raw no matter what it was. So Jaskier didn’t ask, marvelled at the soft, honest man before him that had openly admitted his love for another, while also remaining perfectly capable of slaying the fiercest monsters on the Continent. _Who woulda’ thought it, Geralt? I mean, really._ “Eskel, you’re a marvel,” Jaskier said, finally. “How you didn’t kick his ass from Kaer Morhen to Nilfgaard after a century, I have no idea.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I kicked his ass all the time,” Eskel flashed a grin back over his shoulder. “Want to hear about the time I cuffed him to a goat and threw the key over the wall?”

“Oh by the _gods_ , _yes._ ”

***

Maribor's countryside was still rife with necrophages, and Eskel found plenty of work clearing it up. It was messy, tiring work; he hated graveirs particularly, he informed Jaskier one evening, because they had a mouth full of cadaverine that even a Witcher struggled to heal from. 

The first time Jaskier set off a round of ‘Toss a Coin to Your Witcher’ in a tavern, Eskel looked ready to bolt into the wilderness, but the weight of the coin purse was worth his brief discomfort. “It would’ve been a bit heavier if I’d had an instrument. People like to clap their hands and stamp along, if not sing.” Jaskier smiled ruefully.

The Witcher thought of Jaskier strumming in the air while they camped; the bard probably thought his little tick was private, but Eskel had noticed. In his self-destructive rampage, Jaskier had smashed something dear to him to punish himself for whatever perceived wrong he thought he’d committed. That wound would remain open and raw until his instrument was replaced, and he could get back to doing what he loved in its fullest form.

So, when Eskel collected payment from an Alderman a week later and spotted a lute propped up against his dining table, he pointed at it. “I’ll let you keep a quarter of it in exchange for that.”

The Alderman glanced over his shoulder. “Really? Used to be my son’s, y’know, before he,” the man trailed off, and Eskel finished the sentence in his head, ‘before he got torn apart by drowners while out fishing’, “you know what Witcher, we have more use for the money than the lute, take it. No idea what use a Witcher has for a lute, but it takes all sorts these days, I suppose.”

Eskel arrived back at camp and found Jaskier crouched by the fire, carefully placing an extra log in the middle to keep it high. “Ahh, I was just about to send Scorpion off to search for y--,” Jaskier looked up just as Eskel ducked out of the lute strap and he fell onto his backside with the shock of it. Too stunned to move, the bard could only stare at the instrument placed in his lap. “Eskel…” Barely a hoarse whisper.

“You can stop pretending now and do it properly,” Eskel murmured. “I’m just going to get us some dinner. The food at the inn smelt really bad, rotten, in fact, so I didn’t bring us anything back.” He unhooked his crossbow and headed off into the woodland, just _like that._ Jaskier slid his fingers down the neck and over the strings; it was a little rough around the edges, but it made the sweetest note.

 _A gift._ Eskel had bought him a gift. A salve for his wounded heart and a reminder that it was time to start healing. A process that he’d been putting off for months now, for fear that letting go was a betrayal, that if he stopped grieving then... then _something._ Not even he had the words to explain. The lute was permission. Permission from a man that loved Geralt perhaps more deeply than even Jaskier did. So, he propped it against his stomach, gently teased the tuning pegs, and sang to Geralt for one last time.

> _“There goes my heart beating,  
>  Cause you are the reason,  
> I’m losing my sleep,  
> Please come back now. _
> 
> _There goes my mind racing,  
>  And you are the reason,  
> That I’m still breathing,  
> I’m hopeless now._
> 
> _I’d climb every mountain,  
>  And swim every ocean,  
> Just to be with you,  
> And fix what I’ve broken.  
> Oh, ‘cause I need you to see,  
> That you are the reason. _
> 
> _If I could turn back the clock,_   
>  _I’d make sure the light defeated the dark,_   
>  _I’d spend every hour, of every day,_   
>  _Keeping you safe.”*_

Eskel sat down in the darkness several metres away and listened as he sought Geralt’s eyes in the stars.

***

It was an unspoken rule between them that they didn’t drink spirits. There had been enough of that in recent months for both of them. The first time Jaskier ordered a drink in a tavern, Eskel tapped the bar and looked concerned. He never wanted to see that pained worry in Eskel’s eyes _ever_ again, not for his sake, so he pushed it away and motioned for the barkeep. Wine and beer were perfectly adequate for social drinking, and they made a joke of critiquing the beverages in each tavern they came across. 

“I thought that had a particularly earthy texture, and a scent… difficult to place,” Jaskier commented as he peered into the tankard.

“Hmm. Eau d’shit, as the Nilfgaardians would say.” Eskel shoved the tankard away with a deadpan expression and then snorted with laughter as Jaskier wheezed and chuckled at his side.

“Marks out of ten, then?” The bard finally caught his breath and pushed his own drink away to join Eskel’s.

“Solid three. Had marginally worse. Whatever we had in White Orchard really didn’t sit well with me.”

“Mmm. You did give the local cattle a run for their money in terms of fragrant contributions.” 

Eskel’s eyebrows shot up, and he gave Jaskier a light shove, enough to unseat him partially from his barstool. “That’s rich coming from you. I’m never letting you eat goat stew again.” 

“Touche, dear heart. Shall we?” He indicated the door, and they departed, leaving behind a very perplexed barkeep. 

***

The crescent moon was bright and high when they set up camp for the evening several days later; Jaskier helped Eskel unload Scorpion, and prepared the fire in his absence. It was far easier to gather the materials and then wait for ‘Igni’, so he pulled out his bedroll and draped a blanket around his shoulders until Eskel returned with dinner.

Pheasant. Still juicy and tender once Eskel had finished with it. _Vesemir's recipe, apparently._

As the evening drew on and Eskel pulled out whetstones and mineral oils to service his weapons, Jaskier lounged back against a nearby log to pick gentle tunes. Eskel never _once_ complained about his music, but Jaskier noted quickly he preferred quieter music at night by observing his posture. He was tenser when the music was louder, and more relaxed when it was soft; it allowed him to keep an ear perked for trouble. The quiet sing of stone across steel faded into the background within minutes. Jaskier leaned back and closed his eyes as his fingers moved across the lute using muscle memory alone.

He didn’t notice the silence that fell shortly after for a good five minutes, but when he did, he opened his eyes to see Eskel gazing at him, head tilted to the side like his namesake; a big ol’ wolf. A fluffy one with amber eyes, good for cuddling and savagely protective, because Jaskier couldn’t even _imagine_ Eskel in any other way now. “That’s a Witcher level of mastery there, Jaskier.”

The bard flushed. “Oh no, just practice,” he shuffled upright, hands stilling. “Perhaps similar to your steps and routines, I suppose. Relies on muscle memory, sense of rhythm, predicting your next move, and you need to change your tactics for different demands.”

“Hmm,” Eskel looked away with a thoughtful nod, and then, “do you think you could teach me?”

“Teach you?” Jaskier didn’t mean it to come out so high-pitched.

“Yes, I'd like to learn,” the Witcher tapped his knee and then shuffled his way around the fire until he sat in front of Jaskier, cross-legged. “Or do you think it’s too late for me to start?”

 _Oh, oh, he was serious._ Jaskier watched Eskel approach and couldn’t quite believe-- _no, no, actually he could._ Eskel loved to learn. That had become abundantly clear during their three months together. He picked through books in every town they stopped in and had taken an active interest in Jaskier’s education at Oxenfurt, to the point that Jaskier once queried whether he should start charging for lectures. It was perfectly natural for him to see a skill that impressed him, and then want to pick it up for himself. Jaskier shifted the lute from his lap and placed it in Eskel’s hands.

“Right, so, the basics first.” He patiently explained the different parts - the neck, the body, the ribs, the frets, the strings, and the difference between strumming and picking. Eskel listened and followed Jaskier’s fingers wherever they pointed, only asking about the strings' material. _Because he had to know everything about a subject, didn’t he?_ “Now, let’s try and play a chord.” Slender fingers curled around Eskel’s palm, and for a moment, Jaskier cradled it, fingertips ghosting over the contrast of rough and smooth as he adjusted Eskel’s fingers to the strings. He didn’t notice the Witcher staring at him from beneath his brow. “Good… press down quite hard, to get a clear note, ahh--, your finger slipped, here…”

“Hmm, I think it’ll be easier if I sit behind you,” Eskel rose to his feet in one graceful movement, and before Jaskier could protest - _not that he would have if we’re honest, dear reader -_ the Witcher nudged him out of the way and dropped down behind him. The bard found himself sequestered between two muscular thighs with the lute back across his lap again. Eskel’s hands still rested on the neck and body from either side, and his chin hovered over Jaskier’s right shoulder to peer down. Witchers were like walking heat sources and Jaskier’s body hummed with glee when that broad chest pressed flush with his back. _Calm… calm down._

“Right, yes… actually, this is easier,” Jaskier cleared his throat, shuffled a little bit to adjust his posture, and then continued, “so this is the ‘G’ chord.” He carefully adjusted Eskel’s fingers again, tapping his thumb to keep it straight for good form, and then he placed a palm over the top of Eskel’s strumming hand to guide it gently over the strings. “Perfect,” he tried desperately not to melt at the slight buzz of pleasure that he could actually _feel_ from the Witcher behind him. “Good pressure. Now, one more chord, and you can practice going between them… so, this is C.”

Another quick adjustment of fingers, but as Jaskier stretched around Eskel’s big hand, the nerves in his palm twinged and he flinched back, “Ahh, sorry, sometimes it gets a bit cramped, give me a minute.” He lifted his hand free from the neck of the lute, but Eskel’s caught up and gathered it between his fingers. Jaskier’s breath hitched as the Witcher guided his scarred palm across to his face and placed a kiss in the centre. His lips were impossibly soft and warm, and it sent tingles shooting down Jaskier’s wrist. _He just… he just…_

No coherent thought found purchase in his head, and Jaskier stared first at their joined hands and then to those intense eyes, now so close and _so golden they practically shone._ A small sigh finally fluttered between them - Jaskier, Eskel, not very clear who - and Jaskier tilted his head to capture Eskel’s lips with his. 

Lute _completely_ forgotten, he cradled that firm jaw as his tongue probed gently into the sweet heat of his mouth. It was slow and luxurious; every part of Jaskier’s body felt the contact between them like the spreading warmth of sunrise. Eskel placed the lute gently aside, and Jaskier swivelled until he was on his knees, tilting Eskel’s head back, their bodies flush. Jaskier melted into that kiss with abandon, shivering when two large palms alighted gently on his waist, steadying, anchoring; he could feel strong fingers flex ever so slightly, like a large cat wanting to knead and rub itself into something pleasant.

Eventually, Jaskier had to come up for air, panting, he slumped against the firm body beneath him. “Oh, _fuck…_ who taught you to kiss like _that_?”

Jaskier felt the grin between his hands, still cupping Eskel’s face. When he dragged himself upright again and stared down into Eskel’s eyes, glittering with mischief, he realised _exactly_ who had taught him to kiss like that. _Oh, for fuck’s sake?_ All he could manage was a breathless chuckle before he leaned back for more.

When Jaskier had kissed his fill that night, he dragged his bedroll over so that he could curl up against Eskel’s side. It was just a kiss. Not a _single_ shred of clothing left their bodies, but Jaskier felt more fulfilled, more satisfied than he had in… _in years._ His heart still hummed with glee even as his consciousness began to drift. And he wasn’t the only one; he learned that evening that Witchers _purred._ That was _definitely a_ purr. There was no other explanation for the deep, almost imperceptible rumbling that lulled him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings:
> 
> [You Are The Reason](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShZ978fBl6Y) Calum Scott 3:25


	10. You Are The Reason [Art- SFW]

**Painted by the brilliant Márcia Monteiro**  
[Wannastayugly on Tumblr.](https://wannastayugly.tumblr.com/)  
[@thebardjaskier on Twitter.](https://twitter.com/thebardjaskier)  
A higher quality version can be found on Twitter.

* * *


	11. Thunder Rolls (E)

The Blizzard had been too much. He should have known. It was the cave. He was sure of it. _Claustrophobic._ Made him make stupid choices. They always threw him off-kilter. Not the nightmares. He was used to those. They happened now and then when his mind decided it needed to process the Trials again. Nothing he couldn't deal with.

Eskel fell out onto the grass and threw himself onto his back; the sun burned through his Cat-induced vision, and he scrunched his eyes closed in pain. Hands scrambled frantically around his belt until he found the familiar shape of a dancing star bomb and he wrenched it free. "Igni." His voice, metallic and feral, grated out the two necessary syllables with difficulty. The endrega were thundering up in his wake, and he could already hear their claws clattering across the stone, accentuated by their shrieking war cries as they sought the murderer of their queen. Eskel threw the bomb into the cave mouth and sent a shattering Aard in its wake moments later. 

The combined kinetic force of both triggered a cave-in catastrophic enough to destroy the entrance to the burrow, and he covered his mouth with his arm as dust and debris burst out towards him. Panting, Eskel slumped back, but the stab of agony through his temples reminded him none-too-gently that he was going to die from toxicity unless he dealt with it soon. Using force of will alone, he rolled onto his front and staggered to his feet. Two gloved fingers shoved down the back of his throat until his gag reflex kicked in, and he retched up onto the gravel trail before him. It bought some time.

Mostly blind, his sense of smell overcome with the stench of the burrow - rotting corpses, excrement and general endrega filth - he staggered into the forest in some vain hope his feet would know where to go. _Then he heard it._ Jaskier was singing. It was a gentle, melodic tune about a young knight meeting his first love, and it was going to save Eskel's life. He closed his eyes completely and followed the sound. Tree branches lashed him in the face and roots snagged in his boots, but still, he stumbled forward. 

"Eskel?" Jaskier looked up at the figure falling into their camp, and his heart stopped. The Witcher's skin was ashen white, his veins stuck out as black and purple lines webbing their way over his face and neck, and when his eyes opened, they were two marbles of obsidian black. He looked like the stuff of nightmares, but Jaskier had seen it before. High levels of toxicity. Eskel had taken too many of his Witcher brews, and his body was struggling to recover; he'd poisoned himself to finish a fight. "Bag, which one?"

The bard leapt forward to the pile of packs at the far end of the camp and yanked open straps and ties until he found a cache of alchemy bottles. He ran to Eskel's side as the Witcher slumped to the floor, his hands shaking as they ran over the bottles, but he couldn't see to pick out the one he needed and closed his eyes with a sigh of discomfort. "Tell me what it looks like. Describe it."

Eskel grimaced, his head tilting down to his chest. "Small. Square. White." Each word sounded like agony, and Jaskier searched through until he found it, but rather than thrust it into the Witcher's unsteady hands, he yanked the cork out himself and placed it to Eskel's lips. 

"Drink. Careful, it's alright, I have it," Jaskier spoke softly, one hand to the back of Eskel's head to keep it still as he tipped the White Honey into his mouth. "There you go. Good." Fingers circled in that mop of black hair, and to his relief, some of those nightmarish veins quickly began to recede. When the bottle was empty, and Eskel looked down, flecks of amber were starting to appear in his eyes again. 

"Need to… lie down." He managed to half walk with Jaskier's help, half crawl across to his bedroll and slump onto his side. He had no choice in the unconsciousness that swept over him.

Jaskier finally allowed his hands to shake. It had always been terrifying when Geralt was wounded or vulnerable, but the toxicity was always the worst. Perhaps it was the knowledge that the Witchers did it to themselves. Their decoctions and potions were all poisons. Normal men died within minutes of consuming them. Yet Witchers knocked them back until their bodies were imploding, all to give them even a marginal extra edge over their foes.

He moved to Eskel's side and stroked a hand over his face, fingertips gentle across the scars on his cheek. The armour had to come off, so Jaskier unbuckled and unstrapped until Eskel was only in his shirt and trousers. Moving the Witcher’s beautiful yet fucking heavy body proved to be a challenge, and by the end, Jaskier was wiping sweat from his forehead and briefly leaned his face on Eskel’s chest.

It didn't matter that he was unarmed. If bandits descended right now, it wouldn't make a difference if he were in full plate and mail; he was out of it for a good few hours. The thought of this happening to Eskel on his own as it no doubt had - poisoned, unconscious, with only Scorpion to watch over him - made Jaskier's heartache, and he shuffled to sit by his head, stroking his fingers through his hair to offer what comfort he could. 

Two hours passed before Eskel stirred. "Ahh, welcome back, sleepyhead." Jaskier shaded his eyes for him while his pupils spasmed and found their correct setting. Eskel moved with a quiet groan, pushing his hands into the bedroll below him as support. They said nothing more while he acclimated again to consciousness, and Jaskier tilted his head against one broad shoulder. 

"I'm sorry, that was unforgivable," Eskel grated out finally, gaze still cast down. 

"What are you on about?"

"I took too many risks, and it put you in danger," he paused, looked down at the slender, elegant hand that stroked down his own thick forearm. "I need to remember that it's not just me at the moment." _Anymore. He could hope._

"Eskel, look at me." Jaskier reached up to take his chin and guide his head around. The kiss he placed on his lips was chaste, more for Eskel's comfort; his mouth was probably a mire of different tastes and concoctions that he wanted Jaskier nowhere near. "Remember, I made a choice. I know the risks as well, better than anyone besides a Witcher themselves. I'm just glad that you found your way back… you said that cave was two miles away?"

And there was that smile. A shade of its usual flare, but Jaskier could forgive him. "I could hear you singing. You must have been giving it some. I think your ballad just saved my life." His voice was soft, his expression affectionate, and Jaskier's heart just started packing its bags to move into those amber eyes because _damn._

Jaskier drew a thumb over Eskel's brow, and then his fingers buried themselves in the soft black hair at the base of his head, stroking gentle circles; momentarily speechless and wanting to communicate somehow the swell of pride and passion in his chest. 

Their relationship had, inevitably, become far more tactile, even if they had felt no need to go any further than long, languorous kissing sessions under the stars. There was no rush. For once, Jaskier felt like he had all the time in the world to enjoy the building heat that wrapped around him every time Eskel was near. His frantic crush had become a simmering passion on a slow, glorious boil. "If I’m to teach you to play the lute, then I want to learn a small aspect of your trade-in return. A small part, but vital."

Eskel raised his eyebrows, waiting, so Jaskier continued. "Alchemy, I want to know how all your potions work; what they do, how to make them, when you need them," he lifted a hand when Eskel opened his mouth to protest. "Always supervised, I'm not going to sell your secrets either."

"I'm not worried about that," Eskel smirked. "I give it five minutes before you're bored."

"If I can sit through two-hour lectures on musical theory, then I can sit and brew some potions." Jaskier batted the Witcher lightly on the jaw and unfurled to his feet. "Water?"

"Please."

They spent the rest of the afternoon pottering around camp. Jaskier read while Eskel meditated for a couple of hours; on his knees as Geralt did, head tilted up to the warmth of the sun. Occasionally Jaskier looked up at the serene, relaxed look on the Witcher's face to assure himself that he was comfortable and content. "Hmm, the Witcher," Jaskier tapped his chin and shuffled down on the bedroll, " _my_ Witcher."

Jaskier missed the small smile on Eskel's face.

***

True to his word, Jaskier proved to be a focused and diligent student. He flipped his journal around and took notes at the back to keep his alchemy lessons separate from his prose, and jotted down important points as he went.

Eskel went through the differences between potions and oils first. The oils were for his weapons, and each oil had properties poisonous to different creatures, sometimes they could be used as salves for specific wounds. The potions had, as Jaskier knew, different purposes. Swallow helped replace lost blood, energy and could be used to accelerate healing if the wound was particularly bad; Cat, Jaskier knew; Blizzard, Thunderbolt. Different colours, different properties.

"Why are none of these labelled?"

"You have to know them by sight and scent," Eskel lined up five potions next to each other. "If you rely on reading labels, it slows you down; you can also grab the wrong one by misreading or mislabeling. That would be fatal. A double dose of Cat, rather than one Blizzard? Blind in an endrega den and now not fast enough to run."

"That makes sense." Jaskier placed his pencil down.

"Right, name these. Try not to look at your notes."

Jaskier got them right on the first try. Eskel purred.

***

After three more busy weeks on the road, it was time for a stay in an inn to recoup, do some laundry and have a good bath. Jaskier turned out their bags and left Eskel to bathe in peace, hopping into the water after him for a brief scrub, before insisting they head downstairs for food and a glass of wine. Eskel threw on his gambeson over his shirt and grabbed his swords, but agreed.

The tavern was fairly empty, and they took up a seat near the window. The food was passable, the wine earned itself an impressive six out of ten, and they pulled the Gwent cards out for a few rounds. Eskel was annoyingly good, and Jaskier ended up having to get the first three rounds of drinks. However, they were not unobserved, and eventually, a small group of young nobles decided that they were an eyesore… or something. Noblemen generally didn't need an excuse to be assholes.

The three circled the bar, ordered themselves another drink, and then swaggered their way over to Eskel and Jaskier. They looked like they were about to pass, and then one extended a hand to knock Eskel's drink over. "Oops." It would have spilt into his lap, but this _was_ a Witcher they'd decided to victimise, and his hand shot out to catch the goblet mid-tilt to set it right again. He didn't look up from his cards or even acknowledge their existence, just calmly plucked an infantryman from his deck and put it into play. _That pissed them off._

"Well, well. At least some of the stories are true. You freaks of nature are quick," the aristocrat glanced at his fellows, and they laughed, high-pitched and crooning.

"I wonder what else is true. Can you see in the dark? Completely emotionless, right? Can't feel sadness, anger, guilt. Fuck goats? What you think, Sebastian?"

"No. They rape women when it takes their fancy, or even just the little boys they steal." Eskel looked up at this, and Jaskier sensed, rather than saw, the hurt and the anger. There were many things Eskel tolerated. The vitriol directed towards his kind was nothing new, and he _always_ walked away. Not once had Jaskier seen him remotely affected by the jeers and lewd jokes. But Eskel detested _this_ rumour down to his very soul. The very idea that he would force himself on another human being burned him at a level these noblemen knew not.

And Jaskier just… the rage was so raw in the pit of his chest, that he couldn't allow the infraction to go unpunished. "Oh, I recognise you," he began conversationally, sipping his wine as he leaned back. "You're Lord Haxo's boy." Eskel squinted at the bard; he knew him well enough to sense trouble, but he remained silent for now.

"Yes, what of it?" Sebastian, apparently having expected to go unrecognised, shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, it's just that you come over, you try to spill my companion's wine, slander his character, and it just reminded me of your family's role in the slaughter of Cintra. The irony of someone _without_ honour, trying to bring down a man with literal vats of it." His eyes narrowed, and Sebastian paled. "Remind me. Weren't the noble houses of Cintra all slaughtered by Nilfgaard in their merciless purge? But not the House of Haxo. Do your friends here know why?"

The other two were squinting at Haxo now. Jaskier threw his hands up and then rose slowly to his feet. "Clearly not! They have no idea that your father threw his sword down and hid like a coward in the basement, oh yes, I know all about that." Sebastian now looked horrified. "And then when Nilfgaard came a-knockin'," Jaskier knocked at the air, "your father prostrated himself before the captain and swore unerring allegiance to Nilfgaard."

"That's… no, he wasn't even…"

"Your father was the castellan of the fucking castle, of course, he was there," Jaskier's voice had risen almost to a shout now. "And he ran, like a coward, surrendered the secrets and riches of his kingdom to save his miserable skin. Why else would a Cintran noble be in a tavern in the middle of Redania? A bit too tense at home, is it?"

Eskel was watching proceedings in well-concealed awe. His eyes occasionally flickered to Sebastian, but mostly they stayed on Jaskier. The scent of anger emanated from him in a low, dangerous rumble. Like rolling thunder. And it… Eskel shifted his legs apart for comfort.

"How do you--?" None of this was common knowledge, and Sebastian looked on the verge of tears as his companions eyed him in disgust.

"Oh, in fact, I did compose a little poem to immortalise it. Here, you can take it back to your dear ol' da’," Jaskier cleared his throat officiously, stepped onto his chair, spread his arms and bellowed it to the whole tavern, who were obviously all now listening in on the confrontation. "From the wine cellar did Haxo watch Cintra fall; when Nilfgaard came knocking he was eager to answer their call; he dressed up for their court in his fanciest frock; and then gladly fell to his knees to suck Emhyr's giant cock." Resounding laughter rippled around the spectators, and Jaskier crossed his arm over his stomach for a theatrical bow.

Sebastian's fists clenched and he lurched forward but stopped rather suddenly when Eskel stood. He didn't snarl, or growl, just stared; his fingers resting lightly on the edge of the table. The threat was implicit but so very terrifying, and the nobleman fled from the tavern without another word. His colleagues reluctantly followed, clearly re-evaluating their current allegiances. 

Jaskier watched them go, smug and content. "Well, they can go and get fu--." He turned his gaze to Eskel and was struck dumb. His pupils were so wide they practically engulfed his entire iris, his lips were parted, and his chest was rising and falling a lot more rapidly than it usually did. Not fear, obviously. Jaskier's eyes rolled down to confirm-- _yes, Eskel was very happy with him right now._

"I would like to retire for the evening." Eskel's voice was thick and low, and it rumbled its way straight to Jaskier's groin. His Witcher snagged his wrist and hauled him across the short distance to the staircase, their cards and drinks abandoned. He pushed Jaskier backwards through the door of their room, flicking it shut behind with his heel because both hands were fully occupied with removing the bard's clothes as quickly as possible. There was no argument from Jaskier’s end, but the movements were so frantic that he couldn't even get the first buckle of Eskel's sword belt undone. _Fiddly bloody things..._

The kiss rendered Jaskier breathless and dizzy, and by the time the backs of his knees hit the bed, his breeches and braies were wrapped around his ankles. Eskel pulled away only for a second to pull his chemise over his head, and then Jaskier was completely bare under those big hands, and they wanted to feel _everything._ Eskel's lips returned to mouth hungry kisses down the side of Jaskier's neck, hands now clenching possessively at his ass. "I want to taste it all, worship every inch of you. Hear you moan my name, over and over." He rumbled against Jaskier's skin, and _fuck_ Jaskier was going to let him because what he did with his tongue was _just too good_.

"W-wait, Eskel," Jaskier sprawled on the bed and moaned as Eskel's mouth found his chest, his tongue working one nipple until it was painfully hard. He needed to intervene because if Eskel reached his cock with that mouth, he would lose all sense of time and space. "Y-you need to take your clothes off." He pawed helplessly at the padded fabric of the Witcher's gambeson; flushed with arousal, every inch of skin ablaze and yearning, but he wanted to feel every part of that hard body against him. "No more until I can touch you."

Eskel pulled away immediately, but Jaskier caught that dark, petulant look and smirked in response. So, obviously, now that his feverish momentum had been chastised, the Witcher slowed _right down_. He even stepped away when Jaskier reached to help, batting at his hands. The bard raised a brow and flopped back onto his elbows, only to chuckle when he realised _exactly_ what was happening. "Oh come on, that's unfair."

The Witcher teased each buckle loose, one at a time, his eyes never leaving Jaskier. The belts dropped away with a dramatic thud, then he started on the buttons of the gambeson, picking each one open and taking his sweet time about it; Jaskier squirmed impatiently. It was a damn relief when that grey linen shirt finally lifted and revealed Eskel's chest and Jaskier, now with full permission, drank in every curve and hard edge. _It should be criminal to have a body that good._ Bronze skin dusted with fine dark hair that Jaskier was very much looking forward to rubbing his face in. Of course, the inevitable scars claw marks across the ribs, a bite just below his collarbone, a few nicks here and there, but they just made him look more powerful, more feral. 

His eyes followed Eskel's fingers as they smoothed down his abdomen - _the absolute scoundrel_ \- his thumbs notching under his waistband. He went no further for a painfully long three seconds, before rocking his hips in the most sensuous, graceful roll ever before seen on the Continent; Jaskier's mouth dropped open in feigned outrage. “You - I -.” 

If it were even possible, Eskel unlaced his trousers more slowly than he'd removed his shirt and Jaskier half wanted to strangle him, but the pace made the reveal all the more glorious. Jaskier's mouth watered at the huge length that Eskel pulled free as his trousers slid down his thighs. 

" _Fuck…_ " What else was there to say? Eskel's cock stood up over his stomach now it had been unleashed, and Jaskier wasn't even sure if two hands and his mouth would be enough to hold it. He scrambled forward on the bed and wrapped his fingers at the base, mouth stretching to engulf the head and suck with a deep, longing moan. Eskel's stuttered gasp was rewarded enough for the torturous wait. _Take that, you beast._

Jaskier looked up as he swirled his tongue to meet the dark eyes that watched him, callused fingers stroking through his hair, appreciative rather than demanding. Jaskier knew exactly what impact he was having when he fluttered cornflower blues and moaned wantonly; a low growl rumbled in Eskel's chest, and those fingers flexed as his control was exercised. Head released with an audible pop, Jaskier slid his lips down the thick vein beneath, mouthing the tender skin of Eskel's balls in wet, frantic worship of the godlike proportions in front of him. 

"Hmm," Eskel nudged him away, and Jaskier _pouted_ in disappointment, only to feel thoroughly vindicated when those lips were back, and a now fully naked Eskel was pushing him further up the bed. Jaskier's head fell back to reveal more of his throat for consideration, and Eskel rumbled against it, "Want to make that clever mouth scream my name. How shall I do it?" 

Jaskier bucked into the hand that curled around his cock, thighs spreading, and panted. " _Gods_ , I want you inside me, I want to be so full I still feel it in a week." He whined faintly when all that heat was suddenly gone, and the Witcher slipped silently across to his alchemy bag to retrieve a small vial of oil.

Eskel prowled - _yes, fucking prowled_ \- back to the bed and Jaskier melted into the kiss pressed to his mouth before the Witcher stretched out over the blankets, head propped against a pillow and patted his chest. Jaskier wordlessly straddled him, shuffling higher when Eskel nudged his hips and gasping as soft lips slid down his length. Jaskier braced a hand on the wall as Eskel sucked him deep, his tongue toying with the sensitive join behind his head and making Jaskier quake.

The first touch of thick fingers against his entrance, taut and vulnerable from how far his legs were splayed, made Jaskier gasp. Firm circles eased by liberal amounts of oil teased the muscles to relax, and he bore back as Eskel slipped a finger inside, willing his hips to stop stuttering because thrusting into someone's throat was just rude. The heat around his length disappeared, and when he looked down, Eskel rubbed the right side of his face against Jaskier's length, smearing his scars with saliva and precum, and Jaskier whimpered in mute awe. Eskel lapped at the underside of Jaskier’s cock like a cat at a saucer of milk as he teased another finger inside, adjusting his wrist to find his mark. "I want you to fuck my mouth, Jaskier. You can't hurt me." 

_Oh, fuck, oh, fuck._ Was he going to come undone from that request alone? Eskel swallowed him, sucking insistently. Jaskier rolled his hips experimentally and gasped when his head nudged the back of Eskel's throat. _Yes, yes._ He was careful at first, but when a third finger pressed inside him and Eskel began a full assault on his prostate, he lost his composure a tad. There was a lot of panting and moaning, and probably a song lyric or two because Eskel's mouth was the hero Jaskier deserved and…

He came with one hand braced on the headboard and the other gripping in Eskel's hair. The low, rumbling moan that rippled over his twitching cock shook him to his very core, and when he looked down again, he saw Eskel's eyes flutter in pleasure; his face buried against Jaskier's groin, throat drinking his spend down greedily. When his head flopped back in the pillow, his fingers withdrawing carefully, his tongue flicked out across his lower lip, and Jaskier descended on his mouth like a starving man at a banquet table. Gasping for air, he pulled away only far enough to rest his forehead against Eskel’s. “You… are magnificent.”

Eskel chuckled and sat up as if Jaskier weighed no more than a damn throw pillow, and the bard tumbled off. "On your knees. Haven't heard you scream yet."

"Yes, sir." Jaskier rolled over onto his front and propped himself up, limbs somewhat leaden but _fuck_ was he ready to feel the goliath currently screaming for attention at Eskel's groin; a cheeky shimmy of his rear was met with an abrupt slap across one cheek.

"Patience," Eskel growled as he rose on his knees, one hand at the base of his cock as he hooked Jaskier's hips. "Your ass is tighter than a Novigrad merchant."

"Your pillow talk really does flit between awe-inspiring and shock-- ahh-nngh." Jaskier practically crumpled as Eskel's head pressed inside, stretching his muscles to breaking point despite the considerate preparation, and he dropped onto his chest to bury his wheezing cries.

"Jaskier, talk to me."

"I - yes, more, _more. Please more."_

The pace was impossibly gentle, and part of Jaskier wanted him to be the opposite… then the logical part reminded him that he really _did_ need to be able to walk tomorrow at least, if not ride. His Witcher rocked his hips in that elegant way he'd shown off earlier and Jaskier could do more than moan into the bedsheets as he gradually pushed deeper. The moment Eskel's hips were flush with his backside felt like a triumph and Jaskier was damn... _proud_. He felt so full he could barely breathe, but it was all manageable, and then Eskel began to thrust in earnest and Jaskier disintegrated. His own cock was full again, but he didn't have the sense of self to touch it. The drive of Eskel inside him burned through every thought that tried to rally in his head other than - “Fuck, yes, _fuck, yes_.”

Eskel ran his hands over the smooth skin before him, grabbing handfuls of the pert ass that sucked greedily at his cock even as it withdrew. _Fuck it was so long since he'd had someone like this, and someone who genuinely wanted to be with him._ He could smell it rolling off Jaskier in waves; happiness, desire, lust; it added a whole new level to the experience. And Jaskier was beautiful. Watching him come undone rivalled any field of flowers or stunning sunset Eskel had ever seen, and now his heat clenched hungrily at him, making Eskel’s eyes cloud and his head light. 

As he drew close and the beautiful creature mewled and gasped, Eskel reached down and pulled him up, arching that elegant spine so that he could wrap a hand low around his neck, palm partially splayed on his collar bone to ease the contact, and drop the other in front of his hips to the thick erection that lay neglected. Jaskier gripped the broad palm at his throat for dear life, crying out when the pace intensified to a deep grind, and the skilful fingers at his cock matched it. "Eskel, yes, fuck, yes!" Jaskier felt the rumble of pleasure in his _soul_ as it rippled its way through the Witcher's body, and the tongue that pressed to the skin beneath his ear burned like liquid fire. 

He came _again_ , still managing to spill wetly over Eskel's fingers, "Oh fuck, oh fuck." A mantra of worship as Eskel followed him over the cliff; hand dropped from his neck to his hip to bring him back with force. Never had it been more satisfying to feel the heat of someone's release bloom through his ass, and his Witcher ground into him with a feral snarl. 

Jaskier flopped onto his front, only able to gasp weakly as Eskel withdrew to find a cloth.

***

"What set you off in the bar then?" Jaskier was latched onto his Witcher's side under the blankets, cleaned up, warm and a little sore.

"Loyalty and passion," Eskel rumbled back. His voice was somehow lower than usual, sated and relaxed; Jaskier couldn't get enough, so was finding any reason to get him to talk. "No one outside my brotherhood has ever stepped in to defend me. And even then, we tend to both just walk away."

"Really? Never? He accused you of being a rapist and a child molester, and urgh… of all the pathetic weasels; maybe I should have just decked him."

"Careful, Jaskier. I can keep it up all night, but you need to walk tomorrow."

A chuckle. "Alright, so loyalty and passion. What else turns you on? I've never seen you look like that. I thought you were going to take me over the table."

"Mmm. Kindness, sometimes, situational. Ferocity and power, when it is being used for a noble cause."

"So…"

"Yes," Eskel rubbed a hand up Jaskier's bicep. "So, Geralt. And now you."

Jaskier preened. To be on the same level of the White Wolf in _any_ respect had to be… well, but there were more important questions to be asked at this current moment. "And you, uh… always top?"

"No, I like to switch." Eskel regretted it as soon as he said it because the pun was just as painful as he expected it to be.

"Oh, so you're a Switcher then, are you?" Jaskier sounded far too pleased with himself, and Eskel tried to obscure the roll of his eyes.

"You know, in all my years, I've never heard that one." 

"You have, haven't you?"

"Yes. Too many times."

"Hmm. It's still funny." Jaskier stretched his arm over Eskel's chest and burrowed closer, head tilted so he could press a soft kiss to the bicep beneath it. "And just men? I haven't seen you bat an eye at any woman, and trust me I've been watching."

Eskel chuckled. "Yes, just men. More sturdy. And I'm a slut for a good dick and pretty eyes."

Jaskier's mouth dropped open, and he had to sit up and stare, then laughed at the mischievous side-eye he received in response. " _Well_ ," he flopped again, picked up the blanket to briefly admire Eskel one last time. "I am so very grateful I qualify."

"Mmhm." Eskel's embrace tightened, and he closed his eyes. “Emhyr’s cock; big, is it?

Jaskier shifted his head to butt Eskel’s jaw in retribution. “Out of bounds, dear heart, I can’t compete with an Emperor. One round with you and he’d be lavishing you with so many titles and jewels that you’d be out of my reach forever,” he grinned, checked under the covers again because _last time wasn’t the last time and this time wouldn’t be either_. “I’d say about seventy per cent of yours, give or take. Above-average certainly. Saw it when I was hiding in his private chambers for a meeting.”

"Tomorrow, you’re going to tell me how you know all of this and _why_. I need to know what I’m dealing with, Jaskier. You know far too much for a bard." 

“You’d be surprised how open people talk before a bard. We’re dismissed as mere court jesters, but they,” a big yawn, “have absolutely no idea.” Jaskier smiled against Eskel's chest and fell asleep to the heartbeat's gentle rhythm below his ear.


	12. Survive (E)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Geralt and Eskel experience the mutations, explore their love and pull pranks.

_1176: Kaer Morhen_

All Eskel could remember from the Trial of Grasses, and the Trial of Dreams was excruciating agony. Bright white light and the smell of bile, vomit and shit. The straps cut into his wrists and his legs, and he screamed until the haemorrhaging made him choke on blood, and even then it just continued inside his head. Once or twice he was certain he heard Geralt’s voice shouting his name, but when he tried to open his mouth to reply, nothing but inhuman noise escaped.

The screams were bad, but somehow it was worse when they _stopped._ One by one, the boys around him faded and passed, their bodies giving up as the chemicals and elixirs shattered them. They kept _dying_. Every single one. Until he was the only one left in his section, and the only voice he could hear was his own. Somehow it was just… _worse._ He almost gave up. In between the fits sometimes there were periods of lucid unconsciousness, like a dreamscape, and in those moments he walked with Geralt through the grounds of Kaer Morhen. His green eyes and the brush of his fingers across the back of Eskel’s wrist; the sound of his laugh and his massive, heart-busting smile fortified Eskel's will to survive. 

Before it all started, he’d made a promise that he intended to keep. As they walked down into the laboratory for the first time, Geralt had turned to him and pushed him against a wall. Those green eyes had been so intense, so piercing, that it’d almost stopped Eskel’s heart. Fear, anger, distress. Geralt had grated out only one word. One order. “Live.”

_So Eskel was going to fucking well live._

***

They sat cross-legged on Eskel’s bunk facing each other; it was the first time they’d met since the Trial of Dreams. It took a week of recovery in confinement to come back to anything remotely human, and then another week of wandering the castle until the body was ready to begin training again.

“I miss them.” Eskel sat opposite Geralt staring into a pair of golden eyes; they were so familiar, yet so _wrong_ in the face opposite him. He missed the glittering emerald that reminded him of enchanted forests and magic, even though he knew this new set would keep Geralt safe on the Path.

“It’s… still me though, right?” Geralt looked down at his lap, strands of dark hair falling over his face, and Eskel reached forward to tuck them back behind his ears.

“Yeah. I can still see you there.” That earned him a smile, and then they sat in silence, gazing down at their hands. It wasn't easy to talk. They were still getting used to these new bodies forged from the Trials; they had been broken down and reshaped as Witchers, and the world interacted with them differently. Sound, light, even the way their woollen blanket felt against their skin. No longer boys. But no longer _human_ either. “So, just fifteen of us left,” Eskel murmured.

“Out of forty,” Geralt sighed. There were many, many friends amongst the dead.

“Yeah.” Eskel rubbed his eyes; they still felt sore sometimes, and even the dim firelight was a little too much.

“Hmm,” Geralt squinted and leaned forward onto his knees. “Can we - ?”

Eskel immediately brightened and nodded, perhaps too enthusiastically, but Geralt didn’t seem to mind because he pounced from his position and pinned Eskel onto his back. When their mouths came together, it felt like the first day of spring after a long winter, and Eskel melted into his bunk, arms lifting to wrap Geralt’s broad shoulders. Their bodies may have changed, but _they_ hadn’t. Everything would be fine. As their tongues intertwined and their bodies pushed together, Eskel turned Geralt onto his back and slid a hand towards his hips where a hardness pressed into him that he couldn’t - didn’t want to - ignore. He pulled back and set his head against Geralt’s, “Can I?” His hand rested lightly over Geralt’s navel, fingers drawing the lightest circles, deliberately avoiding the straining erection next to it.

Geralt looked at him contemplatively, and then down the slope of his own chest. They hadn’t done this bit before. Usually, they did it _themselves_ , but that was different. “Yeah, alright… do you want me to - ?”

Eskel shook his head and leaned up to kiss Geralt as he slipped his fingers, gently, reverently, around his cock. He felt the gasp in his mouth, and it sent tingles down through his chest. Eskel’s fingertips fluttered over soft skin, revelling in the velvety texture, the proportions different to his. He located each vein and dipped his fingers into the thick curls at the base, exploring, marvelling. Geralt squirmed against him, his neck flushed, and so Eskel’s grip tightened. He worked in slow, full strokes against his palm, eliciting more of those breathy sighs until he had to sit up and _look_. 

The sight was breathtaking. Geralt’s thin pupils had blown up into huge, black circles, unfocused and hazy. Without Eskel’s lips to give it anchorage, Geralt’s mouth hung open, unable to hold shape or form words, until, as he drew close and his cock twitched and throbbed, “ _Eskel…_ ” Geralt had _never_ said his name like that; full of desire, awe, even. It sent a surge of heat through Eskel’s body so intense that it made him dizzy.

“Say that again, Geralt. Say my name again.” Geralt’s hands lifted and gripped his shoulders, back arching, and Eskel’s breath hitched.

“Eskel, please, I need it faster,” he moaned when Eskel’s hand increased in pace and threw his head back. “Eskel, fuck…”

From that moment on, when they lay in bed together, all Eskel wanted to do was coax his name from Geralt in that same reverential gasp. He wanted to feel him get hot and watch him descend into hazy bliss; he didn’t even care that his own cock lay neglected between them, and more often than not took Geralt’s hand in his when he tried to reach down for it. “I - I want to focus on you.” For Eskel, there was no sweeter pleasure than hearing Geralt worship him in those deep, husky tones.

***

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Eskel watched as Geralt sprinkled the powder around the edges of the spring, picking up a second bag to do the furthest pool.

“This was _your_ idea, I just got the materials,” Geralt smirked. “Teach Theo for being a world-class fucking prick. I swear to the gods if he makes me run the walls one more time…”

“It’s your own fault. You wind him up. If you just did what he said, then he wouldn’t even give you a second glance.” Eskel flicked some of the powder into the water and watched as it sparkled and fizzed. When the Witchers arrived for their evening baths, the idea was that they would get quite an unpleasant shock to the system. Nothing harmful, but enough to make bathing near impossible until all the powder was cleared.

“No… he has it in for me. Like he thinks he needs to make me do more than everyone else,” Geralt pushed himself up to his feet and brushed his hands off, and then cocked his head to the side at the sound of approaching voices. “ _Fuck,_ Eskel, they’re early. Fucking run!” Geralt dodged out into the corridor and sprinted up the far staircase towards the west hall. Still, the approaching instructors' shadows were already coming into view when Eskel got halfway across the bathhouse.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” This had been a really bad fucking idea. Why had he let Geralt talk him into this? And why was _he_ the one stuck at the scene of the crime? He found one of the old cupboards and managed to cram himself into it, drawing his knees up to his chest and hunching his shoulders into space.

“Fuck, the new crop isn’t gonna’ make it.” _Theo._

“Come on; I think there are at least five in there that will make it through to the medallion.” _Varin._

“Nah, and even if they do, they’re not light enough on their feet. Speartip’ll crush ‘em before they even get halfway through the cave.”

The sound of rustling cloth and leather as the Witchers disrobed and approached the bath. Eskel held his breath and urged himself not to laugh.

“We need to pick the four from the last rotation to face the new experiments. I think Geralt would be a good ch--, _HOLY FUCK!”_

The water began to spit and fizz as the Witchers kicked the powder during their descent into the pool. It would feel like a thousand tiny bee stings on their bollocks, and it was too much for Eskel to stand in silence; he snorted and wheezed into his knees.

They found him and hauled him to Vesemir for his beating. “Was Geralt involved in this?” 

“No, sir. Just me.”

Eskel took both punishments. That was fine. He would ensure Geralt endured his fair share later.

***

“Why are we in the stables, Eskel? It smells like shit in here.” Geralt glanced over his shoulder as Eskel approached, and then sucked in a quick breath when the other drew up against his chest, hot breath across his lips and a hand sliding down between his legs. “Here, really?”

“Why not? There’s a new thing I wanted to try,” Eskel pushed him backwards with the lightest palm on his chest until his back hit the stall. “Just close your eyes and enjoy it.” Geralt watched as Eskel sank to his knees, and then tilted his head back with bated breath. _The quiet tinkle of metal,_ and then a cold band secured around his wrist. 

“What? What the f--?” He lifted his arm as Eskel stood up and backed away several paces. Geralt looked down and followed the cuff and chain at his wrist all the way to the white goat it was attached to. “Very funny. Give me the key.” Geralt held out his hand, but Eskel was still backtracking. “ _Eskel_ , give me the key… this is Vesemir’s favourite goat. He will beat the ever-lovin' shit out of me if he thinks I’ve messed with it-- ow, fuck!” Said goat headbutted him in the side of the knee, bleating irritably and tugging back against the chain. 

Eskel used the opportunity to run out into the courtyard. Geralt growled and scooped the animal into his arms to follow, only to arrive in time to watch Eskel lob the key over the wall from the scaffold. “Are you fucking _serious_? Now what?”

Eskel shrugged, snorting with laughter as the goat bit Geralt’s bicep in irritation at being manhandled. “Cut its head off, or teach it how to spar, ‘cause it’ll be your training partner tomorrow. Good night, Geralt.” 

“Eskel, _Eskel…_ is this about the bathhouse? That wasn’t my--,” he gritted his teeth, snarling as the animal lurched in his arms and butted him in the side of the head. “ _Fuck.”_

***

Rennes glowered at both of them from behind his desk. You knew you were in deep shit when you were hauled in front of the school leader, and the leader of the School of Wolf was a formidable man. Black hair, huge shoulders and arms, and rumour had it that a striga had ripped out most of his throat and he’d still essentially beaten it to death. Eskel and Geralt had the good sense to keep their heads bowed and their mouths shut. 

“This bullshit stops now,” Rennes looked between the two of them, his huge shoulders squared and his scarred neck practically bursting with the stretched veins of his anger. “Vesemir has better things to do than constantly discipline you. If you can’t control yourselves, then you’ll be confined to menial chores; I will see you shovelling shit and emptying latrines for the next four hundred years. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.” _Together._

“The bee, the bathhouses, the goat, and fuck knows what else you two have done in the last five years. You seem to think this is a joke.”

“No, sir.” _Together again._

“In a few months, you will undergo the Trial of the Medallion. _If_ you survive, you will walk the Path as hundreds have before you. And if we haven’t beaten your attitude problem out of you by then, _it_ certainly will, but it won’t be as forgiving. Rather than a leather belt, it’ll be a drowner ripping your intestines out through your asshole. Now get the fuck out of my office.” 

They both turned to leave, and then Vesemir cast Rennes a glance. Rennes sighed and called after them, “Geralt, not you. Come here.” 

Geralt didn’t flinch, even though inside his heart dropped into his stomach; he hadn’t hurt the bloody goat, so this had to be about something else he’d done wrong. Eskel waited in the corridor outside Rennes’ office until one of the instructors barked at him to stop being idle. 

He didn’t see Geralt again for two months.


	13. All Eyes On You (E)

"Redanian intelligence," Eskel repeated, blinking and leaning back against a fallen log. "Well, shit."

Jaskier placed his meal aside and stretched his legs out next to the fire. He'd waited until they were deep into the wilderness before discussing this with Eskel. Three days of riding and the Witcher hadn't pushed it, acknowledging Jaskier's reason for waiting. Trees were far less likely to sprout ears than walls. 

"Yes, a few years after I left Geralt, they approached me. They said my position was unique in that I seemed to so easily worm my way into noble courts and banquets," he smiled ruefully. "I didn't quite believe them at first, but a little bit of training here and there, teaching myself a few skills, like lockpicking, and espionage just seemed to come so naturally."

"And you gathered intelligence straight from Nilfgaard and brought it back? Troop movements, negotiations, everything."

"Oh, yes. I managed to redirect the outcomes of quite a few battles. I'm most proud of Brenna actually. I stole a horse and rode through the night to deliver the report. Where the spies were, what intelligence they had; Foltest was able to redeploy, send in Bronibor and Blenckert’s troops. I think that battle was the turning point." 

"Mm. It was. I was there looking for a brother. I was certain that it was all over for the north and wanted to pull him out. I was too late, but… it was a victory," Eskel uncrossed his legs and braced his heels on the ground to loosen the pull of his trousers across his lap. "So, that makes you a war hero, then, doesn't it? But no knighthood, no medals or public thanks."

"No, but that's not why I did it. Of course, there were selfish reasons; I needed something all-consuming to distract me from Geralt, but I could have just lectured at the university," Jaskier examined his nails; hmm, needed a good scrub at their next inn. "I was sick of war. Sick of watching people die. I'm no soldier, far from it, but it was an opportunity to make a meaningful difference." He titled his head back and gazed up through the canopy. "Huh, war hero, never thought of it that way. Perhaps I should pen myself a tribute. _Jaskier, Warrior Bard, Hero of Brenna._ " He grinned.

That grin slowly morphed into something a little more mischievous when he saw those big eyes shining at him in the firelight, and the rather awkward shuffle his companion did on his bedroll. "You're aroused, aren't you?"

"Yes. Painfully." Eskel nodded, sighing almost apologetically. "If it is at all possible, I would very much like to suck off the hero of Brenna. Not quite a knighthood, but…" 

"Infinitely better than a knighthood," Jaskier leaned back on his hands. "But I've been riding for three days and only washed in a stream this morning, so perhaps we should wait."

Eskel didn't want to wait. He crawled over on his hands and knees like the sultry predator he was and settled between Jaskier's legs. Mere moments later, Jaskier's hand played through tendrils of soft obsidian, his head tilted back as that gloriously talented mouth rewarded his heroic deeds. _Definitely better than a knighthood._ Eskel worked his hand around the base of his cock and pushed down until Jaskier's head sank into his throat; the bard moaned, deep and guttural. "Eskel, touch yourself. I want to see it."

The Witcher obliged readily, leaning onto one elbow and raising a knee to his side to make some space below his hips. Jaskier bit his lower lip as he watched a broad palm work down the thick length he pulled free, flushed and leaking already. Eskel rocked his hips, rutting into it, and Jaskier could feel the low moans vibrating their way through his cock. "You are a delight…" They only paused when Eskel reached to the hand at the back of his head and applied pressure; he wanted Jaskier to push him down. 

_Fuck. That was just too… too good_. It was a completely token gesture; Jaskier was about as able to force a Witcher's head anywhere as a mountain troll was able to use cutlery, but he gripped Eskel's hair and pulled him down anyway. His Witcher relaxed his neck and allowed Jaskier to direct the pace. "Eskel, gods…" That earned him a hum of pleasure, and so he interlaced his breathy pants with the Witcher's name as a religious liturgy. Along with a sonnet inspired by the soft tendrils of hair clasped between his fingers, of course. "If happiness were like the flowers of June, then I would take, the best of them, roses and columbine, the lilies, and bind them in your hair." The act of control itself was enough to set off Jaskier's orgasm after only a handful of deep thrusts. "I think you've ruined me for anyone else." 

"And I don't think I can ever service someone without listening to poetry again, so I suppose we're both at fault here," Eskel murmured, his smile pleased and sated. Jaskier watched his lover - for that is what this beautiful creature had become - extract himself from the bedroll, his palm slick with his own spend. "Drink? I bought some of that wine from the last place." 

The bard grinned. _Of course, Eskel purchased some of the six out of ten._ "Yes, definitely, and I can tell you more stories and watch you pleasure yourself."

"I thought I was meant to be telling you stories," Eskel pawed through his bags until he found the bottle he was looking for and shuffled back over.

"Well, I would like you to hear your first ballad before you tell me anymore. You might not like how you’re represented."

"Play it for me now?" Eskel moved to get Jaskier's lute, but the bard grabbed his shirt and gave a light tug.

"Not tonight. In our next tavern. Tonight I want to lay next to you and watch the fire in your eyes."

Eskel sprawled out with the bottle of wine on his chest, occasionally passing it up to Jaskier and listened as the bard recounted his war efforts. 

***

The next tavern stop was two weeks and four contracts later, and Eskel heard his ballad for the first time. The noble hero stopped his quest to save the innocent. The fearsome basilisk roared - _they didn't really roar so much as hiss, but Jaskier had warned him of a few minor tweaks_ \- and the hero cut it down. He returned the beautiful maiden to her family and rode into the sunset… and there was applause. Three people even stood up. Eskel blinked from his table, and Jaskier watched his Witcher touch his face and shuffle in mild discomfort. _Hmm_.

The night ended well and they headed up for a bath and a comfortable bed. Jaskier walked into the back of Eskel with an audible ‘oof’ when the Witcher stopped suddenly in the middle of their room. “Wha--?” Eskel, only marginally taller, was still a bulwark of a man, so Jaskier had to lean around his shoulder to observe the issue.

They had a double room - _a rare treat, glorious -_ but at the foot of the bed was a floor to ceiling mirror. It was about half of the width of the bed itself, and immediately Jaskier’s mind cannonballed into the gutter. “Oh, the things I’m going to do to you tonight.” He looked up at his companion's face, and his own crumpled at the distress he found there. It wasn’t obvious - Witchers were far too good at maintaining their composure - but Jaskier knew Eskel well enough now to see it in the clench of his jaw, the tightness around his eyes and the dullness inside them. 

“Is this the only room?” The Witcher’s voice was low, and he cast his eyes away to the right, avoiding the mirror.

“Yes, they said it was the last one, I--,” he reached up to touch Eskel’s face, but he was already walking away to dump their bags on the top of the rather fragile-looking dressing table, his back to the mirror. “Eskel. Are you--? Please don’t be ashamed when you’re with me.” 

“It’s fine.” Grated out as he pulled clean clothes from the bottom of the bag, but still not looking up. “I’ll go and sleep in the field around the back.”

“No. It’s not, and no, you bloody well won’t. Either you talk to me now, or you endure a night of badgering and interrogation. I’m quite adept at it. It’s your choice.” Jaskier sat himself down on the edge of the bed, legs folded under him. He raised his eyebrows when the Witcher looked at him, sighing as he dropped into the nearest chair.

“It’s not what they look like. Scars are part of the job. I grew up surrounded by Witchers that had whole features missing - ears, noses - it’s what they represent.” Eskel dropped his face into his hands, fingertips rubbing their way down the length of the rough lines from beneath his eye to his lip. “It’s self-pitying and pathetic. Not worth your time.”

“What do they represent? You’ve never told me, and I’ve never asked. But looking in a mirror should not make you want to forgo a comfortable bed in favour of a shit-covered field. Tell me. I will decide what is worth my time.”

Eskel remained stationary for some time, his face cupped in his hands. No one outside Kaer Morhen knew this story. It had been over twenty years since he’d even talked about it. But Jaskier sat there, with his folded arms and his stern frown, and Eskel realised that if there was anyone he could tell, it was probably this fearsome little feral cat he had accompanying him.

When Eskel spoke, his voice rumbled through the room, coloured by resignation and a touch of despair. “My cowardice,” Eskel looked at Jaskier now, leaning back and gripping his thighs as if verbalising it all was physically painful. “I failed in my responsibilities. I ran away. And they remind me every day that I’ll never be able to fix the life I destroyed because of it. They’re a badge of dishonour that everyone can see.” 

The raw pain in Eskel’s voice was palpable, and Jaskier had to sit on his hands to prevent himself from running over to kiss it all away. The Witcher would probably grab his bedroll and head out into the field unless this tenuous moment was respected, so the bard only nodded to indicate he was listening.

“Fifty years ago, I rescued a prince from Caingorn from a werebbubb gang. He was in dire straits, but I managed to see them off, and he offered me anything I wanted as a reward. I’d been walking the Path for thirty years by that point, and I’d never been offered that, threw me for six,” he sighed. “So I repeated a phrase I’d heard Vesemir say before, ‘give me that which you find at home yet do not expect’.”

“Oh, Eskel…” Jaskier’s stomach twisted as he recalled the look of pure horror on Geralt’s face when Pavetta had vomited on the ballroom floor. _That seemed like a literal lifetime ago._

“Her name was Deidre. And I… panicked. I avoided Caingorn, took ridiculously long detours so that I went nowhere near. There was no way in hell I was ready for a child, and there was also no way I would subject one to the Path.”

“But, she had a family, correct? She was in safe hands. A woman of noble birth, and as far as I’m aware, Caingorn didn’t suffer nearly as much as the rest of the northern kingdoms.” Jaskier could tell by the pained look on Eskel’s face that there was more, so he fell silent again.

“She was born under the Black Sun, Jaskier. Grew into an unpredictable young woman. Flares of rage, malice. And she developed the ability to suppress magic in her immediate area. Even Signs, as I found out later.” He stood and moved over to the pack that contained his few personal items and pulled out a black, leather-bound volume almost the full width of his palm. It was a collective work entitled ‘The Black Sun’, and he walked over to the bed to place it in Jaskier’s lap. “The Council of Wizards meddled and fucked it up. They sent a mage called Sabrina Glevissig to Caingorn, and Deidre was isolated and shunned. I’m not convinced that her malice was innate. I think it was nurtured.”

“You think that her upbringing turned her into a monster.” Jaskier turned the book over in his hands, and as his thumbs flicked through the pages, he spotted hundreds of scribbles and notations in the margins. Eskel’s comments and reflections.

“She turned up at Kaer Morhen about thirty years later seeking protection, and Vesemir hosted her. I found an old mine with a kikimore hatchery and tried to bury my head in the sand. Geralt, he…” Eskel cleared his throat. “He came and found me, convinced me that we could do it together. I wouldn’t be on my own. While we were at the mine, her brother turned up with a retinue of soldiers to kill her.”

“What did he think he was going to do against a castle full of Witchers exactly?”

“It wasn’t a castle full of Witchers anymore. It was a ruin with a few stragglers waiting out the winter,” Eskel’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “We convinced Deidre that she needed to surrender any claim to the throne in writing, and then Merwin to accept it. Everything was going absolutely fine. We went outside to make the arrangements, and then a fight broke out between them. I tried to get in the middle and Deidre slashed me across the face. I’ve never felt pain like it in my life; Lambert had to carry me away.” He reached across and took the book from Jaskier’s lap. “She ran, and I never saw her again. Sent me a letter several years later, but I never opened it.”

“I…” Jaskier paused, measuring his next words carefully. “I have just heard the story of a young man, walking a difficult path, that made a mistake. Nothing that warrants a further twenty years of self-flagellation.”

“If I had collected her as was my responsibility, then perhaps her life could’ve been better. She wouldn’t have suffered or been punished for something she couldn’t control. Helping train Ciri made me realise that it could have been so different,” he rose to his feet and headed back to his pack to shove the book away. “I knew I was a lesser man than Geralt, but I didn’t realise the true extent until I embraced him with that small girl in his arms. I’m reminded every time I see my reflection, and even now, I’m too much of a coward to look.” Hands braced on the dresser either side of his pack, he dropped his head between his shoulders to ride out the bitter clench of shame in his chest.

Eskel felt rather than heard Jaskier draw up behind him, slender hands slipping around his face to pull him around. His eyes flickered closed as the bard’s lips pressed to the scarred corner of his. When Jaskier spoke, he paused between each phrase to place another kiss; every time soft lips brushed across sensitive skin, Eskel’s breath stuttered, and he melted just a little more, “A young man,” to the left of his nose, “walking a difficult path,” beneath his eye, “that made a mistake,” his brow. “I still see you, Eskel. Noble, strong, kind. One mistake does not a man define. You’re no coward. And of more than equal standing to Geralt.”

“Then you’re either too forgiving, or blind.”

“No, _you_ are still nursing guilt that does not belong to you,” he slid his fingers through Eskel’s hair and pulled their foreheads together. “You’re going to have a bath, and then I’m going to make love to you on that bed, in front of that mirror. You can watch us, or you can close your eyes and enjoy the worship, but it’s happening. You need to forgive yourself now. This is step number one.” 

“Hmm,” Eskel lifted his eyes to meet the two blue ones that demanded so much of his heart; full of affection, energy and yet somehow world-weary because those eyes had seen so much and earned their owner the right to chip away at the barricade of guilt Eskel had carefully constructed over the last few decades. _Always the damn eyes._ “Fine, but I need a fucking drink.”

“Fair.” Jaskier grinned.

***

Jaskier laid Eskel down on his back, casting the vial of oil onto the mattress nearby, and pressed his lips to freshly bathed skin. He inhaled the scent of his own expensive salts, lye - _because Eskel believed that the soap he used for his laundry was perfectly adequate for his skin too, the horror_ \- and the deep, heady aroma innate to Eskel himself, rich, musky and _unfairly_ masculine; it made Jaskier light-headed and pooled in his groin until his cock lay heavy against Eskel’s hip from kissing him alone. “You are truly magnificent.” He breathed against Eskel’s chest, watching as a nipple hardened in anticipation of his lips before he swirled his tongue around it and Eskel released a breathy sigh.

Eskel wasn’t used to being attended _to_ , but doing the _attending_ , and his hands wandered over Jaskier’s skin in a mixture of light caresses and insistent squeezes, doing his best to follow the order he’d been given; _lay there and let me enjoy you_. Another breathless sigh as Jaskier’s lips ghosted over his navel and then down the crease of his thigh; they disappeared but for a moment as his lover reached behind him for a pillow, and he lifted his rear obediently so it could be slid underneath. 

And then Jaskier’s mouth was _everywhere._ His tongue licked from the base of Eskel’s cock to the tip until it lay hard and swollen over his stomach; sucked hungry kisses down his balls and across his thighs until they were spread as he wanted them. Slender fingers wrapped Eskel’s palms and brought them to grip behind his own knees, casting a cheeky grin up as Eskel looked down his chest. “My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss, hangs hovering, o’er his balmy brinks of bliss.” And then the bastard licked a firm, lava-hot line over Eskel’s entrance to his balls and made him stutter and gasp. 

“If you don’t get on with it, I’m going to fuck you into this bed until you scream,” Eskel growled his empty threat to the ceiling and huffed at the chuckle that filtered up from between his legs.

Eskel hadn’t felt quite this vulnerable in decades, splayed and revealed completely to Jaskier’s eyes, mouth and hands; he balanced on the fine line of enjoyment and subtle panic, and it just knotted the tension in the pit of his stomach until he was squirming. Several men had taken him - a mage excited by the touch of his palms, a soldier on his way home from war, a blacksmith with hazel eyes that had practically stripped Eskel’s trousers right off him with a single glance - but they were quick and brutal affairs that had quelled the need for physical contact and seeing the pleasure of another, but not much else. _Jaskier wanted to worship him._

Gentle teeth grazed the curve of his ass, leaving the lightest nip at the line before the flesh became too tender. “Jaskier, that feels _\--_ ” Eskel bit back the unintelligible noise that threatened to spill from his throat when Jaskier teased his lips back down his perineum and felt the smirk against his skin. _An inadvertent challenge._ The clever tongue that had whipped a young noble’s pride, that lapped into Eskel’s mouth with the sweetest of kisses and sang lyrics of love and loss like the prettiest songbird, now swirled around Eskel’s entrance in a salacious wriggle, a thumb tugging him open so that it could slip inside. “Fuck, _Jaskier…_ ” The catch of blunt teeth, the vibrations of the bard’s wanton moans, made Eskel shake. “Come on, please.” 

In the mood for small mercies, Jaskier reached up to grab the oil from where it had slipped over the mattress to sit flush against Eskel’s skin. The push of slick fingers was almost a relief, and Eskel arched onto them with a low groan. Jaskier sat up, his thighs spread and flush with Eskel’s body. As he teased his hole open with languid strokes of his fingers, he reached forward and worked his shaft in firm glides from base to tip until Eskel’s hips were stuttering into his attention and his nails were biting into the skin of his thighs. “Tell me you want me.”

“Yes,” Eskel’s voice was tight, no more than a hoarse whisper. “I want you more than fucking _air_ , please.” As if to indicate his point, Eskel’s ass clenched beautifully around his fingers, and Jaskier’s mouth dropped open in an awed gasp. _Yes, yes, please._ He took himself in hand, fingers squeezing just behind his head as he smoothed it in a firm circle around the puckered pink bud that awaited it, forcing another low moan from Eskel as he arched eagerly from the bed. 

“Mmm, beautiful.” Jaskier rocked his hips forward slowly, easing forward as Eskel’s body latched on, pulsating and hot. “So, so beautiful.” He bit his lower lip and took hold of Eskel’s ankles so that his hands could slip away from his thighs; his fingers had left dark bruises and crescent half-moons from the tightness of his grip, and now they clenched in the bedsheets instead as Jaskier slowly increased his pace.

“Harder, c’mon, I can take it.” Eskel croaked, reaching to palm his own cock in furious strokes. Jaskier was more than accommodating and the deep, punishing rhythm he set thrashed any coherent thought out of Eskel’s head other than the desire to _look._ He tilted his head back for the first time to gaze into the mirror at the foot of the bed. His eyes instantly fell on Jaskier. His skin smooth and sheened in sweat; lithely muscular body rippling elegantly with each rolling thrust, and expression one of blissed adoration. Occasionally he threw his head and praised Eskel to the heavens, or leaned to place a biting kiss on the side of the calf below his hand, but mostly he was entranced by the sight of his cock as it fucked deep into Eskel’s ass, his eyes bright and his lower lip between his teeth. He was looking at the Witcher’s body like it was a masterpiece, something to be savoured and revered, and it made Eskel’s toes curl.

 _So close._ Pressure intolerable, ass in a permanent state of humming ecstasy, and then Eskel caught Jaskier’s eye in the mirror. The toothy grin unfurled in all its splendour, blue eyes aglow with desire and face flush. Then he _winked._ Eskel would deny it until the end of days, but it triggered one of the most earth-shattering orgasms of his life. He arched off the bed and ground himself helplessly into Jaskier’s hips, his cry probably audible several houses over. Jaskier pushed him through it relentlessly, each aftershock pulsing through in another wave of pleasure until Eskel’s only capacity to make noise was something between a whimper and a growl.

Jaskier pushed deep for his own climax, hands dropping to grip Eskel’s hips to gyrate his own against them and grind his twitching cock against his prostate for one last surge of pleasure. The Witcher lurched and choked out a shattered moan, and then lay there panting and sated, his abdomen and chest anointed in strips of milky white. Jaskier withdrew gently, slid the pillow away and allowed Eskel’s legs to flop uselessly on the bed. “You know, you’re not a bad lay, Witcher.” 

Eskel laughed and rolled over onto his front with a groan. “Give me five minutes, and we can go again.” Jaskier puffed out his cheeks and tapped his cock apologetically. _It was going to be a long, amazing night._

***

“I don’t think my body exists anymore,” Jaskier murmured into the pillow below his face, and Eskel smirked. “I think I’m just a disembodied head and the rest is permanently impaled on your cock.”

“Mmm. I can get behind that idea,” Eskel shuffled down in the bed, head tilted to consider the grey skies beyond the windowpane. The first snows were on their way; Eskel could smell it in the air. The ground was becoming harder, the plants were shrivelling, and the contracts were beginning to thin. “Come with me to Kaer Morhen for the winter.”

“What?” Jaskier rolled onto his side and blinked blearily. “I didn’t think non-Witchers were allowed at Kaer Morhen.”

“Did Geralt tell you that?”

“No, I just assumed… I…” Jaskier squinted. “Well, I suppose Ciri, the sorceresses. I probably should have asked.”

“Come with me,” Eskel rolled onto his side and pulled Jaskier to him, lips pressing to his jaw and then his neck. “We’re a hand down. You might need to do a bit of work here and there, but it won’t be anything too taxing. I could show you the library, and we can spend every night like this in my bunk.”

Two big amber eyes gazed up at him, pupils wide, and Jaskier stroked his fingers through the sweaty hair at Eskel’s forehead. _How could he say no?_ It wasn’t like his winters were particularly awe-inspiring at the moment; he hadn’t yet worked up the heart to make use of all his war stories to begin plying his bardic trade again. “Yes, alright. I’ll have to let the office know where I am.” His euphemism for the intelligence service. You know, listening ears. “But I would love to winter with you.”

“Mmm.” Eskel smiled and gathered his bard into his arms. “Good. The winter will feel less bleak this year.” 

Jaskier sighed and closed his eyes. _For both of us, my love._


	14. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Geralt and Eskel face more Trials, while Eskel tries to figure out whether there's any of _his_ Geralt left.

_1177: Kaer Morhen_

"They took four in. It's a fuckin' hell hole down there. Worse than the other Trials, for sure." The remaining eleven from Eskel's class of trainees were eating, and conversation had drifted to speculation on the experimental trials. It always made Eskel feel sick and so he never participated; he had to walk away once when they began to try to figure out whether any extra limbs might be involved. However, today was different. Berengar had run an errand for one of the mages, and _seen_ it. "Yeah, so four went in, but there's only one left alive."

Eskel immediately surged from his seat and gripped Berengar by his shirt. Smaller than Eskel by at least half a foot, Berengar's feet dangled off the floor when he was pinned to the wall. "Who? Who is it?" His voice shook. He didn't care. There would be a damn sight more to come if that person was not Geralt. The others were watching with wide eyes, and in his peripheral he could see several Witchers turn to look.

"It's Geralt," Berengar choked out, thrashing against the iron grip in his shirt. "Fuck, Eskel, put me down!"

A mixture of anger and relief overwhelmed Eskel to the point that it took a bark from Varin, the sword instructor sitting nearby, to bring him back to his senses. “Eskel, down. Now. Or I’ll lash you myself.” Eskel let Berengar drop to the floor and leaned his forehead to the wall when the other scarpered back to his meal. His lungs felt tight and he panted against his hand. _Geralt was still alive._ Eskel might see him again.

Curiosity overwhelmed shock, and the others continued to probe Berengar with questions as Eskel walked away. “Does he look any different?”

“Yeah, his hair’s _white_.”

***

After his outburst in the grand hall, Eskel was made to attend extra classes with Barmin on his own. The old Witcher had taught Vesemir and was regarded with deep respect even by Rennes; his age and wisdom seemed to ripple in the air around him. He could sense when Eskel was unfocused during their sessions, but instead of a slap around the head as he would receive from Varin or Theo, Barmin brought him out of meditation and they talked.

“Witchers are not meant to be emotionless, Eskel, but we are meant to have control. A loss of control could be the difference between life and death.”

“And what if I don’t care?” Eskel shot back, his fists clenched against his thighs. They were kneeling in the middle of one of the many herbs gardens stretching behind Kaer Morhen towards the mountains. Barmin preferred to teach meditation out here because it was closer to what a Witcher would experience on the Path; the sun, the fresh air around them, and the howl of a distant threat in the background. Must be a wyvern that needed clearing.

“When a Witcher dies on a contract, it’s not just their life that has been sacrificed. That monster will then go on to take more life. Life that cannot defend itself. Men, women, children; evil does not discriminate.” He leaned forward, seeking Eskel’s eyes, and only sat back on his heels when the trainee looked up at him again.

“Most die in the first year anyway. I probably will.”

“Hmm,” Barmin looked up at the sky, open and blue, and breathed in deeply. “Do you know what the instructors call you?”

Eskel blinked, unaware that he was any more than a speck on the bottom of their boots. “Call me?” Theo could be quite creative when Eskel put a foot wrong, but he wasn’t sure that dislike had circulated among the others.

“The Dragon of Kaer Morhen,” Barmin murmured, amused. “We’ve never seen someone that could fill the entire courtyard with Igni, or obliterate three foot thick stone walls with Aard. The mages wanted to run more experiments, but I advised Rennes against it. Magic is not something Witchers are meant to meddle too deeply in. You have a greater aptitude with it than I have seen in my four hundred years here.” He paused and took another deep breath, eyes flickering closed briefly as he enjoyed the freshness of the air. The castle could become stuffy with several hundred bodies crammed into it. “You will not die in the first year, Eskel. Not if you learn some discipline.”

Eskel sat in silence, his fists loosening on his thighs, and then the question clawed its way free. “Why didn’t you stop them from taking Geralt?” His voice was so quiet that a human ear would miss it, but he wasn’t talking to a human, and Barmin heaved a sigh before he answered.

“Geralt is another unique case, but in this instance his individuality worked against him; there are greater authorities at work there, I’m afraid,” he scratched his fingers through his coarse, grey beard. “He will survive, Eskel. As you will too. Now, another deep breath, and this time, I want you to focus on that anger I can see in the back of your eyes. You cannot get rid of it, but you _can_ contain it, store it and use it more efficiently later.”

Eskel liked Barmin. His funeral pyre was one of the most difficult to build after the Purges.

***

Geralt appeared two weeks later. He was different. Not just his shock of white hair either, but the way he carried himself. This was a different man to the one that disappeared into the laboratory two months before. Eskel caught only glimpses of him during the day, because he seemed to be constantly surrounded by instructors or mages. When Eskel went to his bunk to try and find him - hold him, kiss him - it was empty too. Geralt didn’t eat with the other trainees, and he didn’t train with them anymore either, not until four days before they were due at the Circle of Elements. He stepped out into the sun and locked eyes with Eskel. 

“Geralt,” Eskel smiled, and his chest clenched when he saw the light crinkle at the corners of Geralt’s eyes. It was a confirmation that there was still something of his Geralt in there, even if it seemed to be imprisoned and subdued. “How… umm, are you alright?”

“Yes,” he spoke quietly, his voice sounded rougher than it had before the experiments, like they had used a whetstone to sharpen and harden it. “Do you want to partner up still?”

Eskel nodded and they grabbed the blunt training swords from the rack before heading out into the sun. Warm up was simple enough; the steps so ingrained in their minds that Eskel could focus on Geralt in his peripheral. He moved differently. There was an unnatural fluidity and speed to his footwork that marginally surpassed even that of the instructors modelling at the front of the class. 

When it came time to practice counters and disengages, Eskel ended up on his backside in the dirt. It wasn’t the first time one of them had been knocked over by the other, but this one felt a little more savage. The sheer force behind one parry had reverberated up the sword and into his hand.

“Sorry,” Geralt stepped forward and offered a hand down, Eskel looked at those amber eyes, so closed, and carefully took the palm to haul himself up. He didn’t get to accept the apology, because Theo was bellowing at them.

“Geralt! Here.” Rather than offer backchat, Geralt released Eskel’s hands and headed over without a word. Witchers and other instructors had gathered on the balcony above, talking quietly amongst themselves, while they gazed down on the training below. They never gathered like this outside of the introductions of a new class, or for a meeting with Rennes, and Eskel followed their eyes to Geralt with a note of apprehension.

“Right then, boy. Let’s see just what they’ve done to you.” Theo shrugged his cloak from his shoulders and picked up two steel swords from the rack at the front. Geralt cast his training sword aside and caught the new blade by the hilt, swinging it back behind him to familiarise his muscles with the new weight. “To first blood.” 

Geralt acknowledged the parameters with a nod of the head and launched forward with a precise uppercut that Theo barely managed to dismiss. Eskel had seen Theo duel with other instructors before; they needed to keep sharp and limber, just as the Witchers on the Path, but he had never seen him pushed onto his backfoot so quickly. Geralt was relentless and clinical; the clash of steel punctuated only by the shatter of Quen shields against countering Aard as Theo tried to throw Geralt off his stride, and failed. 

It was simultaneously horrifying and awe-inspiring. Eskel had trained with Geralt every day since the very beginning. _Every single day_. He knew how Geralt fought, every shift of his muscles, every twitch of the fingers and wrist. The form and technique was still there, but someone had taken that skilled combatant and injected him with a monstrous level of grace, speed and strength that eventually disarmed Theo; the clatter of the steel blade across the flagstones was deafening. 

The tip of Geralt’s blade pressed to the underside of Theo's chin, nicking the smallest cut to draw a single droplet of blood. It was perhaps _more_ embarrassing than if Geralt had slashed open a huge, gaping wound in his face. _Deliberate._ Eskel saw Geralt’s upper lip twitch, but otherwise he remained perfectly still, the blade still primed at Theo’s throat. “Enough, Geralt. You get the win.” Rennes called from the balcony, and waved his hand to dismiss all but Dagobert, the mage that supervised the Trial of Grasses, and they walked down into the courtyard towards Geralt together. 

Released and clearly irate, Theo stomped over and hauled his class out the gates to run The Killer.

***

Geralt became more distant. 

He didn’t smile, didn’t laugh, and spent most of his freetime in silent meditation, or out in the courtyard training by himself. Vesemir and Varin stopped the latter eventually; _training alone only reinforces your errors, Geralt_. Even though he had now returned to mealtimes, he didn’t get involved in any of the conversations between the remaining six trainees, and Eskel’s attempts to lure him out of his shell resulted in only the odd grunt, nod or monosyllabic answer. He didn’t even want to read together anymore, saying that he needed to get up early for a chore or individual session with one of the instructors. 

Eskel laid in his bunk every night longing for the feel of Geralt’s skin and lips, and he buried his face in his pillow and blankets in search of the faintest scent left behind from their last time together, but found nothing. The night before the Trial of the Medallion, he left the warmth of his blankets and tiptoed across the dormitory; he could only stand there and stare down at the pool of white hair, his fists clenching and loosening on repeat at his side, before he slunk away again.

Both of them survived the Trial of the Medallion, which meant now they would be dispatched into the wilderness around Kaer Morhen for the Trial of the Mountain. The Trial was simple enough. _Survive._ And then your journey on the Path began. Whereas Geralt and Eskel had secured their medallion side-by-side, skirting around Old Speartip and reaching the Circle of Elements after beating the rock trolls, the Trial of the Mountain was to be done individually. 

They took Geralt through a portal first, blindfolded and bound. Four days later Eskel was taken too, deposited in the wilderness with only his two swords and a hunting knife. The ranges of Morhen Valley were riddled with dangerous creatures, but Eskel knew his biggest enemies would be the elements and starvation. Within a few hours, he managed to burn through the rope around his wrists, trap a rabbit and set himself up a small fire beneath the overhang of a tall ledge. 

After kicking dirt over the flames and burying the remains of his meal, Eskel spent the next few hours climbing until he was high enough to gaze over the valley. They had dropped him off high, which meant that if he continued downhill to the west, then he would eventually reach the gates of Kaer Morhen. The shriek of a distant wyvern resounded through the valley as Eskel climbed down to resume his trek.

It rained twice and Eskel sheltered in caves. Avalanches and mudslides were common on the slopes, and the extra few miles he might cover wading through the quagmire of the forest weren’t worth it. He found a pack of drowners and cut through them with ease, burying the bodies away from the river; it could be the last clean water source for several miles, and even if he didn’t need it, then another might. Other than the cold and the constant worry about hunger, Eskel was finding the whole thing quite… pleasant. In the evenings he lay on his back beneath a pelt taken from a large stag he felled within the first four days and named the constellations above him, and during the day he listened to birdsong and the melody of the winds as they howled through the valley.

He gathered supplies as he went. A waterskin fashioned from the pelt of a rabbit was his most prized possession and he took every opportunity to replenish it. The stag pelt shredded into strips and used to bind a much thicker bear skin; an unlucky encounter that turned into an opportunity when Eskel used Aard to topple a huge boulder onto the creature’s head, killing it instantly. 

However, on the twelfth day, his feet and his legs sore from walking, Eskel finally encountered an obstacle that threatened to end his training at this last hurdle. The ticking purr above his head as he rounded a sheer, rocky outcrop was his first warning; its hide the same sandy colour as the rock it clung to, the wyvern’s deep red eyes opened almost lazily, pupils thinning to narrow slits as they zoned in on Eskel. _Fuck._

It leapt from its perch with and crashed through the trees towards him with an ear-splitting shriek. A young one judging by its size and the development of its spines, but still deadly and _toxic._ Eskel rolled under its wings and managed to cut through the ligaments by its body, dodged around the talons that lashed through the air and scraped through the trunks of trees as it lunged for him. Aard pushed it back and it staggered as Eskel opened another wound in its soft underbelly. In one final effort, it swiped its barbed tail across and landed a lucky swipe across Eskel’s arm, tearing through his gambeson and leaving two deep lacerations in his bicep. 

With a mixed snarl of pain and frustration, Eskel rammed his sword up through its chin, blood spattering his face as the tip erupted through the top of its skull. _Too late._ His vision swam and he fell to his knee, fingers gripping over the wound as he shouted in anger. Without salves, without potions, this was going to kill him. It would take longer than a human, but slowly the toxin would burn through the defences provided by his mutagens. Panting, he slumped against the corpse of the wyvern, head knocking back against its scaled stomach. _Catch your breath, get moving._ Eskel closed his eyes.

***

_A familiar pair of hands under his arms. Draped across one broad shoulder. A fire crackled. A cold cloth over his forehead. A searing pain in his arm._

_Fever. Clothes stripped away. Soft furs beneath and over him. Water pressed to his lips and choked down. A warm chest pressed to his back. Strong arms at his waist. A steady heartbeat matching his, demanding that it keep beating._

_A familiar voice, gravelly, low, gentle. “Don’t leave me, Eskel.”_

Eskel’s eyes flickered open, his sight blurred at first, but eventually two booted feet swam into focus. His chin tilted and he met two familiar amber eyes, framed with tousled white hair. “Geralt?”

“Mmhm. Take it easy.”

Eskel growled and pushed his hands into the floor, forcing himself up onto hands and knees. Everything ached, but everything was working; the wound on his arm was scabbed over and the skin felt tight where it was healing. “How…?”

“I found your tracks a couple of days ago and started following them. Thought we could do the rest of the trip together. No rules against it if we happen to cross each other’s paths.”

Eskel grimaced in discomfort, but managed a smile. It was expected that Witchers offer assistance if they happened upon another on the Path, but Geralt had deliberately sought him out. For days. Definitely bending the rules a tad. “ _Witchers are lone hunters…_ ” Eskel's voice was a low, officious tremor: Vesemir.

“ _...but even a lone hunter can use a helping hand sometimes._ ” Geralt finished, his eyes crinkling at the corners in amusement. He shifted to grab a water skin, and pressed it into Eskel’s hands. “We can probably spend another day here while the weather clears, then we should get going.”

“Mmm.” Eskel sat back, staring at the hammering rain outside the cave mouth, and suddenly he needed to ask the question that had been burning in his chest for weeks. He needed to know that Geralt wasn't lost to him forever. “We’re still… brothers, right, Geralt?” He hated the pained tint at the back of his tone, but it could be put down to the injury on his arm. Even the word ‘brothers’ felt so insufficient, but he couldn’t find anything else to describe what they were… had been.

“Always.” Geralt scooted over and picked up the furs to drape them around Eskel’s shoulders, one hand squeezing lightly. For the first time since Geralt had undergone the additional experiments, Eskel could see affection glowing in his eyes, warm and soft, and his heart eased just a little bit.

They marched through the gates of Kaer Morhen shoulder-to-shoulder. 


	15. On The Road To Kaer Morhen

By Eskel’s estimate, it would take about a week and a half to reach Kaer Morhen. They would follow his usual route, but he added a couple more days to avoid stretching Jaskier too much. The bard scoffed, “I think that ship has sailed, my love. Onwards!” Eskel laughed and led Scorpion out of town.

Three days in they stopped to refresh supplies and themselves. Eskel found a lovely waterfall, with clear, blue water and no leeches - the _joy of joys -_ and headed off with their laundry while Jaskier took stock of their remaining herbs and rations. It caused him no end of pleasure and pride that Eskel trusted him with this task, and he insisted on performing it at each big stop. It was a small thing he could help with, and the brightness in the Witcher’s eyes when it was done _correctly_ , and he was left only with a quick list of items to forage for, was something Jaskier lived and breathed for. He was halfway through cataloguing the dried herbs, sitting cross-legged on a bedroll, when even his human ears caught the low hum of singing drifting up from the waterfall. _No. Was that--?_

Jaskier latched the saddlebag closed and slipped out of the clearing down to the riverbank. Their now clean clothes were hanging up over tree branches to dry, and Eskel was currently standing under the waterfall, naked and delicious. The water splashed down over his shoulders, filtering in small streams down the curves of his back and ass and Jaskier followed their trajectory with breathless fascination. 

For about the thousandth time in the last few months, Jaskier thanked the open sky for this _gift_ and then wiped his lower lip when his damned mouth started watering. Another quiet line of the song reminded him why he had come to investigate in the first place, Eskel’s low timber purred through the air like liquid chocolate, _“Should my brothers fall, then surely I’ll do the same, confined in mountain halls, we got too close to the flame.”_

Lessons on the lute were bearing fruit. Eskel demonstrated an aptitude for rhythm, and his memory for the chord placement was truly exceptional. Jaskier was almost at the point of convincing him to play in a tavern - _warrior bard accompanied by his musical Witcher, the billing would never be matched again_ \- but listening to the murmur of his rich voice follow a _melody_ so beautifully made lust, passion and outright damned love pool in Jaskier’s chest. 

_Then_ Eskel started humming and freestyling before the next verse. Jaskier stripped off his own clothes with feverish abandon, practically tripping in the tangle of his braies as he stumbled out of the bushes. He made so much noise that Eskel was already looking at him when he crashed through the water in his haste to plaster himself to his Witcher’s side. Eskel blinked, “Is everything alright?” 

“Please do that more.”

“I clean as much as I can, Jaskier, but sometimes it--.”

“No,” he practically whined, pressing up to Eskel’s chest, lips over his heart. “Sing. Sing to me again. I want to hear it.”

“Oh, uh… I didn’t think you’d be able to hear from the camp,” Eskel smoothed a hand through his hair, pushing soap lather down his back. There was that self-conscious swipe across his face and the twitch at the corner of his lips. “It’s not really… well, it’s not quite up to your standard.”

“ _Eskel_ , every fibre of my being wants to hear more of what just came out of your mouth,” Jaskier reached down and grabbed two handfuls of that pert backside, pulling their hips together _to illustrate the point._ “Please.”

“Alright,” he cleared his throat, and Jaskier released him enough to allow air into his lungs. _“And if the night is burning, I will cover my eyes, for if the dark returns, then my brothers will die, and as the sky is falling, it crashed into this lonely town, and with that shadow ‘pon the crowd, I hear my brothers screaming out.”_ Untrained, raw, beautiful, and sad, Jaskier was just about ready to explode on the spot. All the blood rushed to the surface of his skin, and his lower lip rolled between his teeth. Eskel met his eyes, one eyebrow raised, but very interested in the impact.

“I have so many questions,” Jaskier clasped his hands in front of his mouth, loathe to leave the two pert globes of pure muscle previously in his grasp, but trying to stem the desire to bounce up and down around his Witcher in a crazed dance of awe and elation. “Firstly, why have I never heard you sing before?”

“I only ever really sing this one song when I’m on my way home, and even then, it’s more a recitation than actual… singing.” Eskel lifted an arm to wash under it. He could smell the excitement on Jaskier like an expensive perfume, and he allowed the lye to wash off his skin fully so that he could scent it a bit more. _Mmm._

“No, it was singing,” Jaskier corrected but didn’t pause for breath. “Secondly, who _taught_ you to sing?” Eskel’s voice was untrained - that was obvious enough with his hesitance - but he carried the melody almost perfectly, with a little bit of encouragement, Jaskier would have him serenading the masses.

“Well, no one, we did a bit of singing during the winters at Kaer Morhen. Mostly about monsters, money and tits, though. Nothing for polite company.” 

“Alright, well, yes, I suppose matching the pitch and tone of others would give you… some practice,” Jaskier tapped his chin, so an innate talent then. _Excellent._ “I’ve never heard the song before, who composed it? What story does it tell?”

Eskel’s eyes cast to the floor, watching the river water swirl at his feet, his black hair plastering down over his face. “It’s about the massacre at Kaer Morhen,” his voice was soft. “Some elves wrote it, for us, the ones that survived because we were on the Path. It was never intended for others, because who really cares about murdered Witchers?” 

Jaskier’s face fell, and he reached out to wrap his hands around that firm jaw, stroking his fingers over temples streaming with water. “I’m sorry, I…” He perched up on his toes and leaned their foreheads together so he could really peer into those deep pools of golden ichor. A song, sung only by the survivors of a massacre, was possibly the most harrowing concept Jaskier had ever heard in his life. “It’s beautiful. Finish it for me, and I will sing it in every tavern, inn and court from Kovir to Lower Alba.”

Eskel looked briefly stunned, but he tilted into Jaskier's hands; of course, his feral cat wanted to right this wrong. He deserved the chance. “Now _I see fire, inside Kaer Morhen, I see fire, burning the trees, I see fire, hollowing souls, I see fire, blood in the breeze, and I hope you remember me,”_ Eskel lifted a hand and wiped Jaskier’s hair over the back of his head, fully revealing the intense blue eyes that stared at him. “There’s more, but… uh, I’ll have to write it down. I think I change the words sometimes.” 

“Your voice _purrs_ through the air. It’s like a rich, deep, husky tremor in my soul… _I can’t believe you’ve been keeping it from me for this entire year,_ ” Jaskier squeezed Eskel’s cheeks briefly in retribution until his lips looked like a trout - _and even then the bastard looked attractive_ \- and let him go. 

“In my defence, my mouth has been full most nights.” Eskel turned his back to step out onto the bank, but Jaskier caught that mischievous smirk before it vanished into the water. 

The bard drew right up behind him, deliberately shuffling so that the line of his cock pushed against the cleft of his ass, hands braced on his hips. _There was no way he was going to allow such a lecherous remark go unanswered._ He extended his tongue to lick a line up between Eskel’s shoulder blades, lapping at the falling rivulets of water and the raised scars at his shoulder. “If you sing like that every evening, then I will remain permanently on my knees before _you_ from now until the next conjunction of the spheres.”

“Hmm,” Eskel took one of the thin wrists currently at his hip and pulled it away so that he could swivel back. Two big hands dropped to grip Jaskier’s backside as he kissed him - deep, wanting, full of promise. Jaskier slung his arms around broad shoulders and lifted his legs to wrap around Eskel’s hips, shimmying in delight over the hardness that pressed up beneath his rear. Eskel carried him back to their camp, settling him tenderly on the mat already spread out by their packs. His lips brushed over Jaskier’s chest, hot breath sighing across damp skin. When Eskel spoke, Jaskier could feel the vibrations in his heart. “Sing to me now.”

Jaskier started with a gentle ballad about a Flowergirl and her beau, but it didn’t take long until his lyrics mostly comprised Eskel’s name, pleas for more, the word _‘fuck’_ and _extremely_ loud gasps and moans, because who _wouldn’t_ in the middle of nowhere? It was a true masterpiece. 

***

“I need to warn you about Lambert.” They had nearly reached the Witcher’s Trail - the Killer -, and there would be little time for much conversation while Eskel worked on keeping them safe and alive.

“ _Warn_ me?” Jaskier glanced up from where he walked at the horse’s head. 

“He’s an acquired taste,” Eskel paused, considering his words carefully. “He will do his level best to piss you off. He might even try to intimidate you while he sizes you up. You need to know that he is all bark and absolutely no bite in terms of the innocent and unarmed.”

“He sounds like an absolute delight.”

“He is, actually,” Eskel spoke fondly, and Jaskier glanced over his shoulder again, gesturing for further explanation. “He does the best impression of another Witcher you’ll meet, plays the best hand at Gwent, brews the best moonshine; fiercely loyal, and he’s banned from most of the brothels on the Continent because he kept beating up the pimps and the johns.” There was lots more, but Jaskier would _tell_ Lambert if Eskel waxed poetic about him, and he couldn’t tolerate a winter of _that_ much shit-talk.

“What?” They had to stop walking, Jaskier could smell a story here, and his grin was already simmering across his lips. He lifted his hand to Scorpion’s nose, and the horse drew obediently to stop, immediately sniffing at Jaskier’s fingers and doublet for the expected treat. 

“If he ever spots a bruise on one of the girls, or sees one of the other customers strike them, he loses his temper and delivers a beating the likes of which the man in question has never experienced,” Eskel grinned. “He once lashed one john across a barrel in a public square and beat him across his bare ass with a horsewhip. There was blood everywhere, but no one was brave enough to intervene. Lucky I arrived really.”

Jaskier guffawed, lifted his hand and scratched Scorpion behind the ear. The horse stamped one hoof to inform the bard that affection did not adequately replace a treat. “I think I love him already. So, why the dichotomy? Morally righteous, funny, but an asshole.” Eskel urged Scorpion down the path. If they stopped every time they talked, then it would be spring before they reached the gates of Kaer Morhen.

“I think Geralt said it best. His sarcasm covers a lot of deeply-felt, never-healed wounds. Lambert’s childhood was a clusterfuck, even by a Witcher’s standards,” Eskel was watching the back of Jaskier’s head. How much should he really say? It wasn’t his place to reveal all of Lambert’s secrets and vulnerabilities, but Jaskier dealt with his own story - his surprise child, his scars - with such tender concern. He had proven the calibre of his heart, and if properly equipped to handle Lambert, then could he not provide Lambert with another understanding ear? His brother deserved the opportunity, and Jaskier _definitely_ deserved the forewarning. 

“So, he lashes out to protect himself from further harm. Oh, I am seeing such a familiar pattern here, Eskel,” Jaskier sighed, and rubbed his eyes. _Why was the world so very cruel?_ Geralt, Eskel and now Lambert. They all had raw, bleeding wounds in their souls and hearts that life and fate had ripped with savage claws. “So, bottom line?”

“If he likes you, he will be an ass, if he dislikes you, then he will be an intolerable ass, but all he’s really looking for is a bit of affection. Give him time, patience, and he’ll cool off, then you can swoop in for the kill.”

Despite the warning, Jaskier was actually looking forward to meeting Lambert. He had absolutely _no idea_ , dear reader.

***

The trip up the Witchers Trail was truly gruelling. Gravel trails ascended so steeply that they disappeared into the horizon; sheer drops accompanied by narrow paths with crumbling edges, and gnarled, grizzly trees that cast long, demonic shadows in the setting sun. Only halfway up the mountain did Eskel subtly mention that the _real_ Trail was nicknamed ‘The Killer’, but it was fine because they were only doing parts of it and mostly taking the shortcut. Jaskier had looked at him in horror. 

Jaskier’s despair only lightened when the first of Kaer Morhen’s turrets appeared above the trees, wreathed in mist and mystery. As they drew closer, he could begin picking out more details, like the blackened, crumbling scars in its fortifications; the empty, windowless holes that punctuated each level, and the disintegrating turrets in dire need of repair. “She used to look truly impressive,” Eskel murmured as if sensing Jaskier’s sadness. “But they didn’t leave us much to work with.” _Just cracked stone and ghosts._

Eskel dropped from the saddle as they exited the treeline and looked up at the walls. _Three, two…_ “Eskel! There you are, I was just about to move my stuff into your room, and Papa Vesemir was penning your eulogy.” Lambert was sitting on one of the battlements, his legs swinging down over the wall, and hands clasped between his knees. “And… you’ve brought home a rentboy. Must’ve been expensive to hike all the way up here with you.” 

“Lambert, open the gates.” Eskel barked, holding out a staying hand to the bard who opened his mouth for a quick one-liner. Jaskier watched as the younger Witcher, for Eskel had informed him that there was a significant age difference, swivelled and dropped down behind the wall. Moments later the ancient hinges of the gates creaked as Lambert wrenched them open, and Eskel guided Scorpion and Jaskier across the drawbridge.

“Lambert, this is Jaskier. Not a rentboy, bard and friend. Jaskier… Lambert, Kaer Morhen’s resident asshole.”

Now that he was closer, Jaskier was rather staggered by the roguish, handsome face that turned towards him. Golden eyes squinted as one gloved palm rubbed thoughtfully across his stubbled jaw; cat-like pupils narrowed when recognition dawned. “Wait… Geralt’s bard,” he took a step forward, nostrils flaring as he scented the air, and a smirk twitched the corners of his lips. “Shit, Eskel. You’re boning Geralt’s bard.”

“Actually, dear heart. I think you’ll find I’m boning him.” Jaskier flashed his brightest smile, and it silenced Lambert long enough for Eskel to pull him into an embrace. He didn’t bother correcting the ‘Geralt’s bard’ part; they knew about the mountainside. Eskel made that clear on their first meeting, so Lambert’s use of ‘possessive’ vocabulary needed to be further investigated before it could be confronted.

The younger Witcher wrapped his arms about Eskel’s chest but looked at the bard the whole time. He tilted his head to Eskel’s shoulder after the most discreet rub against the side of his face, and his eyes narrowed suddenly in suspicion. Jaskier felt like he was watching a large, handsome cat rub itself possessively across its master in front of a rival and bit down on his smirk out of self-preservation.

Lambert pulled away, swivelled and started to head inside. “So, we shitting on Geralt’s grave before, or after dinner?”

“Lambert…”

“Should be after. Vesemir’s almost done cooking. To the booze!”

Eskel sighed and led Scorpion towards the stable. Jaskier was somehow even more excited about his stay at Kaer Morhen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I See Fire](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q204k5i9eh8) Dan Vasc 5:12
> 
> Eskel is singing an altered "I See Fire". It always makes me think of Kaer Morhen burning when I listen to it (rather than the LoTR equivilant), and my brain has replaced the words for years.


	16. Here I Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashback: Eskel meets Lambert and helps him learn control.

“Today marks the first day of the rest of your miserable lives…”

Eskel heaved a sigh and propped one booted foot on a low barrel, forearms leaning across the upraised knee. “Does he ever change the speech?”

“No. It’s been the same for the last two centuries, apparently,” Geralt replied, arms folded as he looked down on the new recruits. “Is it me, or do they look more sickly every year?”

“I’m certain we looked worse. I certainly did.” Eskel kept his eyes on the cowering faces of the boys lined up in the courtyard. Behind him, a group of Witchers were already exchanging wagers, but Geralt and Eskel never got involved. They’d been walking the Path now for two decades, and none of what they’d seen made them inclined to make light of the sacrifice the boys were about to make.

“Mmm, no, you looked alright.” Geralt didn’t look at him, but Eskel could see the creases at the corners of his eyes, and simply rolled his own.

Over the years, Geralt had mellowed. With each new experience and new scar, Eskel found bits and pieces of the boy he knew buried beneath the austere frown, but Eskel couldn’t go on pining forever. He had learned to carefully fortify his heart and lower his expectations. The embraces when they met again for the first time after a long season, the odd smile and barked laugh over a game of cards, the quiet jokes that no one else would get and the small acts of love when they were around each other; Eskel lived for those moments still, but he knew Geralt found his comforts elsewhere. His reputation preceded him in that regard. Eskel was and always would be his brother, but they couldn’t be what they _were_. Not anymore.

“What about that one?” Geralt flicked his head and Eskel followed his eyes to a small, thin boy with brown hair. There was nothing remarkable about him until you looked at his eyes. A storm raged behind them the likes of which Eskel had only ever seen once before. When Theo drew up to him and informed him that he was the ‘tyrant of his waking moments and his nightmares’, the boy just _stared_ him down. 

“Here I stand,” Eskel translated with a smile, a small flick of his lips upwards, head tilted to the side. “It’s you thirty years ago.”

“Hmm,” Geralt watched Theo size the lad up and then deliver the expected punch to the stomach. It didn’t happen every year. In fact, it had only happened once since Geralt. The boy hunched over, but didn’t drop to his knee. Instead, he uncurled and clenched his fists to his sides, as if ready for a fight. Quiet words were exchanged, and the instructor walked away. “Maybe Theo’s getting soft in his old age.”

“Yes. Maybe,” Eskel dropped his foot and planted his palms on his hips, but his eyes didn’t leave the lad. “Or maybe he just knows a lost cause when he sees one. Time will tell.”

***

The boy was still there the following year, then the next, and so Eskel bothered to learn his name: Lambert. He built himself a reputation as an absolute firecracker; brawling with the other trainees, snarking at instructors if they pushed him, messing around with alchemy supplies to get high and _using explosives to fish_. Eskel overheard Varin and Vesemir discussing him over dinner one night.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. One moment he’s focused, and then one of the others says something and he goes absolutely feral,” Varin rubbed his eyes, then smirked. “If we can harness it, he’ll be the most dangerous of the lot of us.”

“He lacks discipline,” Vesemir murmured, picking over his pheasant thoughtfully. “And he’s so small, I don’t foresee him surviving the Trials. We’ll be burying him next spring.”

“How many beatings have you given him? I’ve lost count of mine, but the little bastard just stands there and takes it with that same look in his eye, like he’s just daring you to hit him harder.”

Vesemir nodded in agreement. “He was Gardis’ child surprise, I’ve asked him about the family, he said there wasn’t a lot to it. The father was a piece of work, but relatively simple farming background.”

“Right, well… I hope for his sake that he doesn’t backchat Theo anymore this week. I’ve never actually seen him beat an initiate to death, but there’s a first time for everything.”

Vesemir grunted.

***

Eskel finished his work on the battlements early the following day and went down to watch the boys train in the courtyard. Theo was leading them in fairly advanced sword drills, and intended to run the Killer later in the afternoon. When the sun was setting behind the mountains, the light shining in their eyes added an extra level of difficulty. _Theo was caring like that._

He picked Lambert out straight away. The smallest by at least a full head height, he was swiping energetically at his partner and landing repeated hits to the softer areas of the torso. _Skilled._ But leaving himself open on occasion; a more experienced opponent would exploit that. Eskel descended into the courtyard, and plucked a training sword from the rack. “Mind if I join, Theo?”

The instructor glanced at him and grunted with a shrug of the shoulders. _Give a fuck._ Eskel circled Lambert and his partner, listening as Lambert growled. “C’mon, Voltehre, you need to keep your guard up for the counter. You can’t just parry and then keep back-tracking.”

“I’m trying, Lambert. I just… you’re too fuckin’ fast.”

“Maybe I can demonstrate?” The two trainees stopped and looked at him. Voltehre looked suitably intimidated - usually Witchers from the Path didn’t get involved in training, and you stayed well out of their way when they were wintering at home - but Lambert stared him down with a shade of irritation. In the end, the boy shrugged his shoulders and spun his sword over his wrist as he lined up.

It was fairly simple to make an opening in his guard, and the first time Eskel simply rested the tip of the training sword against his gut with a quirked eyebrow. Lambert set upon him again immediately, swiping the weapon away and launching with a flurry of quick slashes and jabs. Eskel cut in again, and this time swiped him across the ass. “You leave yourself open too low. A quick counter would gut you every time.” 

Lambert didn’t give up. He kept launching forward, but every time Eskel dissected his attack and landed what would be a killing blow; swipes across the backs of his legs that would have cut them off, jabs in the stomach that would have gutted him and one smack between the legs that would have gelded him. By the ninth round, Lambert was now so irate that he was making stupid mistakes; predictably for someone dubbed a ‘firecracker’ by the instructors, his anger overwhelmed him. Eskel caught Lambert by the wrist, spun him round and pulled him back until he was pressed against him and thrashing, his sword arm restrained across his own body. “Your anger will be your downfall. It makes you lose focus, and it’ll get you killed. You need to learn to control it.”

Once released, Lambert lurched back towards his opponent. For a moment, it looked like he was about to fly back for a feral attack, but clearly taking on a fully fledged Witcher in a brawl was just a step too far, even for Lambert. Instead, he seethed through gritted teeth. “And what the fuck do you know about my anger?”

Voltehre looked between the two, eyes wide, and Eskel gazed at Lambert with his head tilted to the side. The hurricane that raged in those two blue eyes told a far deeper story than their owner was willing to let on; the rage and spite shielded something more raw. No amount of beating was going to fix those wounds. “Hmm,” Eskel tossed the training sword up and took it by the blade. “Voltehre, as demonstrated. Aim low and you’ll hit him every time. Feint, riposte.” 

Eskel returned to the hall, and Lambert stared after him, confused.

***

Lambert survived the Trial of Grasses, the Trial of Dreams and secured his medallion. When Eskel saw him next, he was a young man. Easily as tall as his peers, with broad shoulders and the beginnings of a beard on his jaw. Eskel observed the class in the courtyard a handful of times, sometimes with Geralt sat on the wall next to him, and noted that Lambert’s swordsmanship was streaks ahead of the rest; he didn’t leave himself open and stepped around each of his opponents with swift and precise footwork. Even Varin, swordmaster and undefeated even by Geralt, watched on with an expression that _almost_ passed as fondness.

“Shit, I think he’d give you a run for your money, Geralt.” Eskel nudged his companion with his elbow.

“Hmm,” the ghost of a smile, and Geralt swung his legs back onto the balcony to depart. “Give him a few more years, and we’ll see.”

Eskel looked for Voltehre - Lambert’s closest friend - but didn’t see him. When he asked Vesemir, the old Witcher heaved a sigh and said only one name as he walked away. “Speartip.” _Old Speartip is one deep sleeper, but wake him up and you’ll sleep deeper._ He claimed a huge clutch of victims every year. Eskel thought then about Geralt, their Trials together and apart, and how he’d felt at the mere thought of his death; the anger and the anxiety had nearly torn him in half.

It was no surprise then when Eskel stumbled across a brawl in one of the corridors off the Grand Hall. Lambert was bruised and bloody, but had managed to suppress his opponent and was in the process of smashing his fist relentlessly into a crumpled face. A small crowd was gathered and cheering on the carnage, enthused and bloodthirsty. 

“Stop.” Eskel’s voice resounded through the hall with all the majesty of thunder, and the spectators scattered. Lambert kept going until Eskel’s arm encircled his chest and yanked him away. “Take him to the infirmary,” he pointed at two of the trainees, indicating the unconscious man on the floor with a flick of his head, “the rest of you get out.” They scarpered and left Eskel holding the writhing, spitting feral cat in his arms. 

He allowed Lambert to spin, and then held him close, one arm wrapped around his back, the other hand holding his head flush to his chest. Lambert kicked and threw punches, cursing and spitting threats into Eskel’s gambeson; either it hadn’t registered that he was fighting a Witcher, or he just didn’t care. Eskel adjusted his hips once or twice to absorb a jab meant for his bollocks against a thigh, but otherwise stood perfectly still until Lambert’s temper began to exhaust itself. 

As the punches became more sporadic and the swearing less frantic, Eskel stroked his fingers over Lambert’s head and down the back of his neck, firm but tender. The effect was gradual but pronounced; shaking fists unclenched and then gripped in Eskel’s gambeson, and Lambert’s breathing evened out until he was perfectly calm. He even tilted his head into the affection, and Eskel watched the tension unwind itself from his shoulders. Only then did Eskel loosen his arm and pull him away by the back of the shirt, “Why?” 

Lambert looked away as if considering his answer; eventually he lifted his chin to meet Eskel’s gaze. “He called Voltehre a weak, cowardly piece of shit. Said he deserved to die.” 

“Mm,” Eskel examined the two amber eyes staring up at him. One was partially obscured by swelling, but the emotions were so raw they had bled through to the surface. _Anger. Pain. Sadness._ Lambert was in mourning and expressing it in the only way he knew how. “And you understand why he said it in front of you, don’t you?”

“Because he’s a fuckin’ idiot, and--.”

“No, because he was looking for a fight, and you were an easy target. With your reputation, he can claim you started it, and then you get the worst of Vesemir’s belt.”

Lambert huffed. “Like I give a shit, they can beat me as much as they want, I’m used to it. At least they only use a belt,” he pushed back from Eskel, and the Witcher let him have the extra space. “That why you’re here? Vesemir’s arm getting a bit tired, is it?”

“I’m not going to beat you Lambert,” Eskel replied, evenly. 

“Might as well. Just delaying the inevitable. I’ll get hauled to Vesemir or Varin as soon as you tell them what happened. If you do it now, then at least I don’t have to waste my time later.”

“Why would I beat you? I didn’t see anything,” Eskel released him completely and walked away. “As far as I’m concerned, he fell down the stairs. Repeatedly.” 

Lambert stared at Eskel’s back, his mouth open, but felt oddly calm. Apart from his face. His face fucking _hurt._

***

“If they keep beating him, Barmin, then he won’t change,” Eskel knelt before the old instructor in the herb garden, his hands planted on his thighs. “He needs to learn management techniques. The belt is just reinforcing the idea that the only way to deal with _anything_ is through violence. A Witcher with that mentality would be too dangerous to let out on the Path.”

Barmin considered the sky, as was his way, and then looked down at the space between them. “You have become rather wise during your time on the Path, Eskel,” he smiled; the emotion creased the corners of his eyes, and seemed to light up his wizened face. “A very different person from the young man that demanded answers from me in this very garden.”

“The Path has a way of doing that,” Eskel murmured. “Will you help him? As a… personal favour. I will, of course, repay in kind.”

Barmin barked a quick laugh. It was warm rather than derisive. “So, you will be brushing my horse and emptying my latrine for me, hm?” He heaved a long, deep sigh. “I will help him, but he must be willing. I am aware of the trainee you speak of. He carries a lot of anger and resentment.”

“He'll be cooperative, I'll make sure of it,” Eskel pushed back onto his heels and stood. “Thank you, Barmin.” The old Witcher nodded and returned to his meditation.

In the end, Lambert agreed because he believed he owed Eskel a debt. Three days later, Eskel walked by the herb garden and saw him kneeling opposite Barmin, his head bowed to his chest and expression serene as the instructor spoke quietly to him. There was no external cure for what ailed Lambert, but Barmin taught him control. His tongue remained sharp and he fastidiously nurtured his own reputation as an asshole like it was a badge of honour, but his temper only ever flared in the face of genuine injustice; measured, and exacting.

After his first year on the Path, Lambert sought Eskel out one night and climbed into his bunk without a word, his expression wrought and troubled. He reached around for one of Eskel’s hands and dropped it onto his own head in a silent, firm request for affection. So Eskel stroked Lambert’s head, neck and back, while he stared into the darkness, his mind working through whatever turmoil raged inside it. 

Lambert's class was the last generation to finish training at Kaer Morhen.


	17. Welcome to Kaer Morhen (E)

If pressed, Jaskier would compare Kaer Morhen to an aging veteran of war left wounded and destitute in the wake of conflict. Shadows of her majesty could be seen still in torn tapestries, towering ceilings and the odd scattered paintings. She was once a place of power and importance, brimming with life and purpose. But no more. 

The scars of her fate were evident in every corner crammed with broken and burnt furniture; every cobwebbed, dusty nook that hadn’t seen footfall in sixty years. Crumbling walls and fortifications allowed the wind to howl through the empty corridors like the wailing cries of a hundred ghosts. Jaskier was grateful when they entered the grand hall and a roaring fire awaited them in the grate.

A large, patchy bear hide stretched out before the hearth, and in front of that was a short table flanked by two benches. Plates and settings had already been put out - four, in fact. Eskel left him in the hall while he took their bags up to his room and then headed down to the kitchen to help. When he returned, he was piled up with steaming bowls and talking quietly with a third Witcher.

At first glance, Vesemir was a quiet, unintimidating man who wore his many, many years clearly on his weathered face, but Jaskier could sense an air of regality and wisdom bubbling beneath the surface, and the other two Witchers regarded him with respect. He was certainly an amazing cook; the vegetables - carrots, parsnips, and buttered cabbage with caraway - were accompanied by a wild boar, replete with an apple stuffed in its mouth and sweet tasting condiments in small pots at the edges. Simple, but mouth-wateringly good. Eskel had clearly learned his trade from a master.

“Compliments to the chef,” Jaskier raised his goblet of wine in a toast. “This is all absolutely splendid. And plentiful. How did you know to cook enough for four?”

Vesemir smiled as he helped himself to another heap of carrots. “One of the greatest benefits of this fortification is the view it gives of the surrounding countryside. I saw Eskel days ago, and noted that he had brought a guest with him.” He raised his wine. “Welcome to Kaer Morhen. What’s ours is yours. Although, I fear it may not be up to your usual standard.” 

“If everything’s as good as the food, then I’m going to thoroughly enjoy my stay.” As if to illustrate his point, Jaskier helped himself to another slice of pork and a parsnip drenched in honey.

Lambert had disappeared earlier, and now arrived back for his meal. On his way to his seat, he stepped up onto the bench and climbed over the table, planting a foot mere inches from Jaskier’s plate and hand, before settling in next to Eskel. Jaskier was pretty certain their thighs and hips were touching judging by how close Lambert pressed himself to the other’s side, and Eskel nudged himself some space with an elbow. “Shift over. Not even your massive head needs that much space.”

“Depends. Which one we talkin’ about?” He raised an eyebrow, head dipping to seek a response, but Eskel only snorted at him and continued with his meal. 

They discussed the journey up the mountain. Lambert had encountered a pack of bandits that tried to rob him just outside Kaedwen. “I used Axii and left them having fun at the side of the road. Pretty sure it’s still a hanging offence in Kaedwen.” He smirked, and Vesemir rolled his eyes. Vesemir told them about a pair of griffons that had nested further in the hills; he’d keep an eye on them, but they would probably need clearing before the end of the season, and then it was Eskel’s turn. Jaskier smiled quietly as he listened to the familiar tales, noting the modesty with which Eskel explained his accomplishments; the fifteen drowners he’d faced single-handedly were a ‘small group of stragglers’; the werewolf he’d slain so expertly was a ‘bit of a pain in the ass’. The bard mused on what other feats he’d recounted with heroics muted.

Jaskier ignored the pointed glares he received from Lambert, identifying them as an attempt at evaluation and thus not requiring a response. The quiet, unofficial truce allowed him to savour the novelty of the first truly hot meal they’d enjoyed in days. Too many bandits and Scoia'tael encampments in the valley, according to Eskel, and they had subsisted on dried meats and stale bread for the majority of the trek. 

Between the four of them, they completely stripped the boar and Vesemir dumped all the plates onto the tray before he picked it up. “Goin’ to bed, don’t burn the place down. Up early tomorrow, we need to visit the mine to repair the east wall.” A small chorus of ‘good night’ from the remaining three, and the old Witcher left them to their drinks.

Lambert hopped up from his seat as soon as Vesemir was out of the room and disappeared down a hall behind Eskel. Jaskier watched him leave, and counted an extra five seconds while polishing off the remainder of his wine. “Thoughts so far?” Voice low.

“He’ll come ‘round.” Eskel murmured. Ignoring the bountiful amounts of glaring, Lambert had been relatively tame. Perhaps Jaskier’s rather forthright comment in the courtyard had established a line. _Unlikely_. Eskel could hope.

“He’s remarkably possessive. It’s rather sweet,” the bard flashed a knowing little smile, but any further discussion was cut short by the sound of jogging footsteps. Lambert had a large alchemy flask in one hand and three tankards clutched by the handles in the other.

“Lambert, we’re not drinking spirits at the moment,” Eskel spoke carefully, eyeing the flask and its deceptively sweet smelling mixture. It would burn on the way in and, if Lambert hadn’t tweaked his recipe from last year, on its way out again as well. “We can stick to the wine.”

“Hm? Don’t be an idiot, if he wants to fuck Witchers, then he needs to drink like them too.” Lambert replied, a little too brightly, and slammed the goblet down so hard that some of the moonshine sloshed out over the top. “Also, _we’re_? What are you? Married? _Fuck_ , Eskel…”

Jaskier could estimate from the glint in his eye alone that this was going to be like drinking acid. He could actually smell the base of White Gull beneath it. “Witcher, singular,” he corrected, reaching to take the ‘offered’ drink and pull it towards him. “Unless you’re offering to increase my tally?”

Lambert smirked. “Doubt you could handle me, buttercup. Besides, I have better taste than our dear Eskel.” He shoved one of the goblets across to said Witcher and patted him firmly on the back of the shoulder, and then set about pouring his own, which he brimmed all the way to the top.

“Oh? But you’ve been giving me bedroom eyes all evening,” Jaskier lifted the moonshine towards his mouth - even the smell was making his stomach lurch - and he paused. “It seems our tastes are quite closely aligned, however.” He smiled ever so sweetly, but the effect was lost slightly when he took a swig of the moonshine and immediately coughed it up over the table. “ _Oh my…_ ” Wheezed as his throat burned and eyes watered.

Lambert side-eyed his brother with a delinquent smirk, before smothering it with his goblet and knocking back a hearty mouthful. Eskel rubbed his face in exasperation and drank some of his own, if only to take the edge off. He couldn’t tell whether they were flirting, insulting each other or both in some kind of… he wasn’t sure; it was beyond him after a week walking the trail to figure it out.

***

Jaskier stretched languorously across Eskel’s bed the following morning. When Eskel said ‘bunk’ on their way up here, Jaskier had pictured a narrow cot with barely enough room for one well-built Witcher, let alone his bard, and had resigned himself to a winter essentially sleeping on Eskel’s chest. Very sexy, bad for the back. The large, double bed was a welcome upgrade and sliding naked over soft sheets and furs had occupied most of his evening, even better when a freshly bathed Witcher, warm and soft from the water, slipped in next to him. 

Eskel’s room was rammed full of interesting objects and knick knacks from his travels. An entire wall was taken up by a giant case of shelves double-stacked with books that Eskel didn’t want to get lost in the library. There were weapons and armour racks, both empty and full, rolls of maps and scriptures stacked up in a corner; a huge black bear pelt stretched out before the fireplace, an eclectic mishmash of furniture and ornaments, and even what looked like a telescope. Ornate, complex; Eskel promised to show him how it worked. That was only scratching the surface. Jaskier was reminded of a well-travelled explorer, curious and intelligent; Eskel’s personality saturated every inch of the room. Part of him wondered what Geralt’s room looked like and, predictably, Eskel had read it on his face and promised they would look together later. 

Jaskier kneaded at the soft furs of the bed now, sighing contentedly at the dull ache in his legs and back. Lidded eyes caught sight of blurred movement at the otherside of the bed. _Eskel_. A small smile spread over his lips and without opening his eyes fully, he reached across to settle a hand on the nearest bit of warm skin he could find. Instead, his fingers alighted on coarse leather, cool to the touch, and then a spiked buckle further up. He startled fully awake, and was met with two golden eyes accented with a criminal amount of roguish stubble gazing down at him. Jaskier yelped and sprang back out of bed, falling to the floor with the sheets tangled around his legs. “ _Lambert_.”

The Witcher was fully armoured, even with his damn swords strapped to his back: _unnecessary_. He was lounging comfortably in the groove where Eskel had been. On his side, propped up on his elbow and one knee raised, he looked the very picture of ‘dashing rogue here to kidnap the princess’, replete with mischievous smirk across slightly parted lips. “Good morning, buttercup.”

“If you wanted a morning cuddle, then you’re a little overdressed, dear heart.” Jaskier untangled himself from the bedsheets, and then readjusted it into a rough toga before he rose unsteadily to his feet. _At least Lambert’s boots were clean._

“When I came in before sunrise, you were on my side of the bed, so I had to go without,” he replied lightly. “Smells like you had a _very_ good time last night. Think you can walk enough to do some work? I've heard he's usually a gentleman and preps.”

Jaskier resisted the urge to smell his skin and kept his expression steady. No doubt Eskel’s scent had been absorbed by every pore, and their joint sweat was soaked into the bedsheets. It was probably a veritable bouquet to the Witcher sense of smell. “Why do you ask? Is Eskel walking oddly?” Jaskier found a wash basin under the window. The water was cold and slightly cloudy with soap, but he splashed it on his face anyway. “Where is he?” As much as he had enjoyed his wake up call, of course.

“Running some errands with Vesemir down at the old mine,” Lambert rolled up onto his feet, fingers interlacing and stretching out in front of him: cramp, he must have been laying there for a significant amount of time. Jaskier didn’t know whether to be flattered or terrified. “I’m on strict orders to feed you and set you to work dicing and organising alchemy ingredients. They didn’t specify how you get downstairs, so you have ten minutes before I throw you out the window and see whether I can get to the bottom before you hit the dirt. Always an experiment I’ve wanted to try.” 

Lambert stepped out into the hall and Jaskier rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. He managed to get ready in seven minutes and Lambert took him down to the kitchen. It was a long room with several metres of work surface through the centre, but it was clear Vesemir now only used the end by the fire. Pots, pans and utensils carefully organised on shelves; dried herbs and cured meats hanging from hooks, and a large vat still bubbling over the fire. Lambert threw down a bowl of porridge on the bench near a stool, and when Jaskier sat down, he could smell cinnamon and honey. _It was amazing._

“Eskel seems to think you can be trusted with the herbs. Vesemir isn’t so sure, so I have to babysit you until they get back.”

“You sound thrilled.”

“I’d rather cut off my right bollock, but I need to be available to help with the repairs, so you’re the distant second choice,” Lambert pulled out several wooden boxes crammed with a mixture of fresh and dried herbs. Jaskier recognised the majority after spending so long at the sides of Witchers; everything from moley arrow to celandine, hornwort to wolfsbane. “What did you do to your hand? Friction burns?” Lambert loosely clenched a fist and waved it by his own crotch to indicate his meaning. The scar was deep and prominent in Jaskier’s left palm; Lambert had noticed it straight away and it didn’t tally with what he knew of soft-handed, work-shy bards.

Jaskier dropped his eyes to the knife in Lambert’s grip - it was to be used for chopping the herbs, no less intimidating than a sword in the hand of a Witcher - but reminded himself of what Eskel had said on the trail. _He may try to intimidate you while he sizes you up. Harmless to the innocent and the unarmed._ The bed, the rather close observation and now the pointed way he rolled that knife over his fingers like a switchblade; definitely all qualified as attempts to size up. Every one of Jaskier's reactions were crucial, even if their verbal sparring could continue unabated.

Porridge finished, he hopped to his feet and picked up the second knife in his right hand. “Too much alcohol and some poor choices,” he pulled the celandine towards him and began to chop. “Anyway, taking care of myself with Eskel around would be like eating stale bread at a banquet. Wouldn't you agree?”

"Wouldn't know. Don't shit where I eat." Lambert didn’t miss a beat in the rhythm of his chopping, and kept his eyes on the task, but Jaskier watched the subtle reaction wind its way across his shoulders and neck like a coiled spring. _Well, that confirms it_. He hadn’t been joking about the pre-sunrise search for affection, and his denial now was a lie. The bard cast his own gaze down as he chopped through the stems and leaves of the celandine, before separating the petals carefully into a different pile. 

It was a relief when Lambert headed outside half an hour later to help unload the stone and ore collected from the mine. He left with a derisive parting shot that kept their scores level. “Don’t cut your dick off by accident while I’m away, Eskel would be pissed.”

Now they were even, Jaskier knew he had to be prepared for Lambert’s next move. 

***

Snow was falling gently outside, and the fire roared in the grate at the end of Eskel’s room; the crackle of flame accompanied by a symphony of breathy, wanton moans and the slap of wet skin.

Jaskier arched his back, crying out, as he came against his palm, fingers of his left hand gripping into the furs below him. Eskel tugged his hips back and slowed his pace so that Jaskier got to enjoy every inch through the aftershocks, growling in contentment as Jaskier's ass spasmed around his shaft. _Fuck, the man was glorious._ Eskel leaned over his back now and mouthed gentle kisses across his shoulders as he panted and gasped. 

“Lay down, I want to feel your skin against me, inside and out.” Eskel growled, his voice thick and deep as it always was when they were in bed together. Jaskier stretched out across the sheets on his front, a pillow shoved quickly beneath his hips to prop his ass off the mattress. The thick length that had so recently driven him to his peak slid back into the hilt and the hypersensitivity made Jaskier half sob in delight. 

The heavy, muscular body behind him now draped over with gentle care. Eskel nudged Jaskier’s legs apart as he took him again in a single, fluid thrust. Broad chest pressed against slender back, skin sheened with sweat lending to a smooth glide of bodies together. Jaskier could feel the heat and the power above him, but was not crushed by it. Eskel slid his arms up at the sides and laced their fingers together next to Jaskier’s head, his elbows taking the majority of his weight as he moved his hips in a slow, sensuous roll. His cock pushed across Jaskier’s prostate in long, torturous strokes, and it was making his entire body throb every time. Jaskier tensed his muscles and was gratified by the low moan of pleasure that rumbled in the chest behind him.

Never had Jaskier felt so thoroughly _possessed_ by a lover as he did now; Eskel didn’t want a quick fuck, he wanted a langorous session of love-making and the resulting worship had wrecked Jaskier until he was a quivering, compliant mess. Merely a vessel to receive pleasure, and barely able to muster the coordination to give it back. The heady musk of his lover overwhelmed his senses, and the film of sweat between them made it feel hot, sensual and filthy.

Eskel whispered sweetly to him, "so beautiful, so good, all mine to love as I please," and Jaskier whimpered, spreading his legs further and canting his hips into each thrust. _Yes, yes, all yours._

It wasn't a case of _if_ he was going to climax again, it was a case of _when_. _Fuck, soon, and he hadn't even touched himself._ Jaskier was vaguely aware of gasping Eskel's name, and when he lifted his head for a kiss, the Witcher was there with gentle lips and a warm, lazy tongue that brushed into Jaskier's mouth and took possession of that too. It was too much. The clench of his second orgasm took Eskel with him, and those graceful hips pushed forward firmly, strong fingers tightening around the slender ones within them. "Mmm, Jaskier..." The bard could write a million songs about the way Eskel said his name at the moment of release; full of reverence, desire; thick with satisfaction and adoration. There was no other sound like it on the Continent.

Eskel rested over him for some time, eyes closed with his nose buried in Jaskier's neck. When his heat finally withdrew, Jaskier pouted into the sheets facedown, hissing irritably when a damp cloth pressed briefly across his tender areas. "Hand." He lifted his palm and Eskel washed that too, because he was thorough and attentive, and… _urgh_ , Jaskier had struck a man-shaped gold mine. He flopped onto his back and watched the Witcher retrieve his half finished tankard of mead.

The fire had dimmed while they were busy, and the additional log Eskel chucked on top fizzled and spat as it began to catch. He stood in the circle of its light and gazed into the flame as he sipped thoughtfully at his drink, and Jaskier admired the flicker of shadows across his bronze skin. "There he was, head held high, back standing straight, with poetry in his posture and fearlessness in his face."

"Mmm," Eskel cast a wry grin over his shoulder, and cast igni into the flames to build them up again; measured, controlled, and Jaskier's cock inquired as to whether another round was a possibility. Something about a naked, muscular deity of a man conjuring a stream of dragon fire as if he'd just struck a match. "How did it go with Lambert today?"

"Oh, well, I awoke to find him right here," Jaskier patted the bed next to him as he shuffled beneath the sheets. "And then he suggested the quickest way downstairs was out the window."

Eskel snorted into his drink as he walked back, amused rather than angry, knocking back the last few dregs. The sigh of contentment as he settled into bed was mammoth, and Jaskier grinned when he snuggled close and felt that familiar, low rumble just beneath the surface. Jaskier continued, "He also lied about seeking your affection. Can I ask what my presence is denying him this winter?" He traced his fingers over the grooves and dips of Eskel's abdomen. 

"Lambert comes to me when he needs to be reminded that he's worth something," Eskel draped an arm around Jaskier and pulled him close. "When he needs to feel loved and secure. Sometimes that means falling asleep in my arms, other times he wants more intimacy. It's a… routine he's grown used to. I always let him initiate, only say no if there are extenuating circumstances." The memory of Rivia rose like a spectre at the back of his mind, and he shoved it away irritably. _Not his finest hour._

"A broken man feels I am denying him his one comfort. Now I feel like an absolute scoundrel."

"Lambert isn't broken, Jaskier. No more than you or I. His mind just needs maintenance sometimes." Considering the difficulty of the last few years, Eskel reflected that perhaps they both were not the most flattering of comparisons. 

"Does he ever talk about it?" Jaskier shuffled the covers down to his waist, and looked up at the bottom of Eskel's chin.

"What do you think? If you really want to know what Lambert is feeling, ignore his words, watch his actions and, if you can, his eyes. He's clever though, won't look at you if he thinks there's anything to see."

 _In the kitchen, fuck._ "I don't want to take you away from him," Jaskier shuffled up, hand planted on Eskel's chest. "I'm not a jealous man, and I know your heart is big enough to accommodate us all." 

Eskel looked at Jaskier thoughtfully, and then lifted a hand to stroke down his cheek, lightly stubbled from a few days without a shave. Never had he met another with such a capacity for love and understanding, and his next question just tripped out stupidly as he scrambled around for something to say. "Us all?"

"Mmhm," Jaskier leaned over to place his forefinger against the left side of Eskel's chest, tapping as he identified each person nestled inside Eskel's heart. "Lambert, me… and Geralt." 

Jaskier felt rather than saw the warmth spread through Eskel's skin and one of those big hands cupped the back of his head to pull him down for a kiss. The words murmured against Jaskier's lips were a first, and it felt right they should be said in the sanctity of his own bed, in his home, as desolate and empty as it was. They had already said it in so many different ways, but it needed to be set down properly, with the reverence it deserved. "I love you, Jaskier."

The bard nearly exploded, and the tremor of awe definitely filtered through to his voice. "I love you too." He didn't need to muster any composure though, because the next kiss shattered it all anyway.


	18. Purr For Me

Thankfully, Jaskier did a good enough job with the herbs that he earned Vesemir’s trust for a more diverse array of chores. The old Witcher had inspected the neatly separated and labelled ingredients, and nodded with a hum of approval. Jaskier helped organise the tack in the stables and brushed down the four horses; Scorpion, Lambert’s bay and two cobs that Vesemir used to haul carts and ploughs. He was even allowed to assist with meal times, but it was when he was directed into the library that his heart truly took flight.

It was a huge tower room that seemed to spiral upwards forever. The books were piled to the ceiling and stacked in no particular order. It was chaos. Beautiful, disastrous chaos. The sheer amount of knowledge, magical and otherwise, contained within that room was truly staggering. “There isn’t anything in here that we wouldn’t want you to see,” Vesemir remarked in his quiet way, following Jaskier’s eyes around the teetering stacks of volumes. “That’s all tucked away in the laboratory, if it wasn’t burned already. I need you to find some kind of order. I’ve been working on it for years, but there’s always some other task that I need to attend to.” _Some other bit of the castle falling down around his ears._

“I can do that.” Jaskier’s mouth was still open in awe. “By subject, and then alphabetised by author, or - ?” he asked, somewhat bewildered and _completely_ out of his depth.

“Sounds good to me. Take your time. I won’t blame you if you want to sit down and have a read.” Vesemir shrugged. He was but a fencing instructor. He knew no more about organising a damned library than Jaskier. The boys had brought back so many random books over the years and simply... placed them on a shelf. Some organisation was better than _none._ And with that the old Witcher left, leaving Jaskier immersed in a vault of ancient knowledge that would probably never be seen by another set of human eyes. He set to work with gusto, but quickly realised the enormity of the task when he spent four hours in one tiny corner, stepped back and realised it looked like he had made no progress. _It’s fine, we have all winter, dear library._

It also didn’t help that the library overlooked the _courtyard_ and there was far too much to distract Jaskier down there. The stone and ore harvested from the nearby mine was being used to patch a huge, gaping hole in the eastern wall. The snow hadn’t really fallen too thickly yet, but the parapets and ledges were icy and treacherous. The Witchers didn’t even seem to notice. In fact, Lambert’s favourite activity was to slide along the flat surfaces of the wooden scaffold and dismount with a forward somersault that he always finished by presenting his arms up in the air. He repeated it every half hour or so, clearly seeking some response from Eskel. 

Eskel ignored him, diligently stacking and patching stone with mortar, until one of those forward somersaults landed on his back and Lambert dragged him to the floor. Jaskier watched the subsequent wrestling match with interest. Lambert’s arms and legs wrapped around Eskel like a limpet, and the older Witcher writhed around until he managed to get the upper hand and detach himself; the growling curses and delighted shouts were too distant for Jaskier to hear. Both rolled to their feet and circled like predators, low to the ground, hands out ready to capture the next assault. Eskel dragged Lambert into a headlock and scrubbed his knuckles into the top of his head, only to be brought to a stop when Vesemir barked across the courtyard from the other side. _Back to work._

Exploration of the castle was limited. Usually it had to be under supervision, and Jaskier was steered away from certain areas; too dangerous, or too many secrets. He didn’t mind. From what both Geralt and Eskel had told him, there wouldn’t be anything in that laboratory he _wanted_ to see. Everywhere he was _allowed_ to go he found evidence of the life that once was. From the stacks and stacks of empty bunks in the old dormitory, to the dog collars and leashes in the stable. Made sense; Witchers couldn’t be around cats, but something had to keep the mouse and rat population under control.

In the evenings, they ate, drank and played cards. Lambert was good. _Really_ good. Jaskier was content to strum on his lute and watch them play. Vesemir was guarded and tactful, Eskel could be a bit too aggressive in his initial offence and then lost later on, whereas Lambert took a broad view of the whole field and his deck gave him the variety to adapt quickly. His focus on the game didn’t distract him from Jaskier though.

“Are you going to play that fucking thing all winter?” Growled with an irritable side-eye.

“Probably. Why? Any requests?

“Yeah, shut the fuck up,” he threw his cards down and looked at Eskel. “How do you put up with that? How did _Geralt_ put up that? He _hates_ noise. _Hated._ He hated noise.” Lambert’s fingers curled to his palms and Jaskier caught Eskel’s eye for a moment, but there was no sense in pursuing it. “If you don’t stop playing it, I’ll shove it so far up your ass, you’ll be plucking the G Chord with your tongue.” 

Vesemir cleared his throat with a pointed bark. “Let the lad play. We have to put up with your bellyaching every winter, so you can put up with a bit of music,” he placed an archer into play, and then waved a hand at Jaskier. “Continue.”

Jaskier smiled brightly at Lambert and continued to pluck away. Eskel bit down on his smile really, _really_ hard, but in the end had to take a long, burning drink of moonshine to chase it away. Lambert scowled.

***

“Eskel!”

The Witcher appeared at Jaskier’s shoulder so quickly he could have stepped through a portal. In reality, he’d been on his way up from the kitchen and heard Jaskier’s distress, sprinted down the corridor and skidded to a stop just in time to stop his momentum bowling the bard over. “What?”

Jaskier pointed into the high ceiling of the Grand Hall. “How, in the name of the shitting Eternal Fire, did he get it up there?” High in the rafters, perched so precariously on a wooden beam that it was tense every time a gust of wind fluttered through the room, was Jaskier’s lute.

Eskel pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation, and then began looking for a route up. “I… he spends a lot of time with the School of Cat, there’s probably a way that he can take that I’d end up breaking something on.”

“He’s nearby. Watching. Isn’t he?” Jaskier planted his hands on his hips, but kept his eyes on the lute.

“Yes, I can’t see him though.” Keen eyes flickered around the hall; Lambert was good at hiding, but he was _definitely_ here. Like any prankster or arsonist, he enjoyed observing the end results of his machinations. Quintessential ambush predator. _Far too much time with the School of Cat._

“Well, his mistake for thinking I need a lute to make music. The acoustics in this room are amazing. Observe.” Jaskier hadn’t sung a single word since stepping foot in the castle, contented instead with plucking out melodies on his lute, or reciting private poetry in Eskel’s ear as they made love. He stepped up onto the bench, and then the table to give him some elevation into the space.

Lambert was just about to see how _bad_ it could get if the lute wasn’t returned. However, it wasn't sarcastic tongue-lashing he was to receive; Jaskier knew it would fall like water off a ship’s prow. _No_. There was a much more satisfying victory to be had. Jaskier cleared his throat, scaled up from low to high to warm up his vocal chords, and then opened up his lungs for his dedication to Lambert.

> “Lambert,  
>  _When I look into your eyes,  
>  It’s like watching the night sky,  
> Or a beautiful sunrise,  
> So much they hold._
> 
> _And just like them old stars,  
>  I see that you’ve come so far,  
> To be right where you are,  
> How old is your soul?_
> 
> _I won’t give up on us,  
>  Even if the skies get rough,  
> I’m giving you all my love,  
> I’m still looking up.”_

Eskel saw a slight twitch of movement near the ceiling; top right corner. He didn’t look directly, but allowed his attention to focus there. Lambert was hunched low to a wooden beam, listening intently, and Eskel tilted his chin down to hide the smile. _Give it some, feral cat._ Jaskier did. Scaling up the volume and power for the finale until the room reverberated with his voice.

> _“I won’t give up on us,  
>  Even if the skies get dark,  
> I’m healing this broken heart,  
> And I know I’m worthy._
> 
> _I won’t give up on us,_   
>  _Gods know I’m tough enough,_   
>  _We got a lot to learn,_   
>  _Gods know we’re worthy.”_

Vesemir had followed the sound of Jaskier’s voice into the Grand Hall and, shoulder against the corner of a doorway, he listened with a tilted head and folded arms. In his mind’s eye, he could see his friends and brothers sitting in the hall, turning to face Jaskier, listening as well. 

A small smile flourished across his wizened face; he could see Rennes’ scowl, when secretly he would be enamoured, Varin and Theo with folded arms and tilted heads, Barmin would be openly beaming because he had a bleeding heart, and so many others. His trainees, his brothers on the Path, their ears would all be pricked to the sound of a pleasant, open tenor. The halls of Kaer Morhen had never been filled with such a passionate declaration of love and intent, and Vesemir could almost hear the ghosts of his family applauding with him as he lifted his own hands.

With his vibrato fading into the rafters, Jaskier beamed at Vesemir and gave him a low, courtly bow. Eskel scooped him off the table into his arms and nuzzled his face into his chest with a pleased growl. 

Jaskier’s lute appeared in Eskel’s room by sunset.

***

Lambert staggered out of the basement, his eyes streaming as he coughed and spluttered, heaving huge mouthfuls of air that just made it _worse_ . In the end, he didn’t make it to the water butt by the weapons racks and simply threw himself down into the snow, scooping up handfuls to smother his face and stem the _burning._

Eskel looked across Scorpion’s back at Jaskier, because the bard was smirking _far_ too much. “What did you do?”

“I put a lot of chili in his moonshine.” Jaskier smoothed his hand down Scorpion’s neck, and the horse turned its head to nudge into his doublet in search of an apple.

“Jaskier, touching his moonshine is playing with fire.”

“So was touching my lute.” Jaskier fluttered his hand dismissively, and grabbed the empty bucket from Scorpion’s stall.

Eskel could only laugh and head out to check that Lambert was still able to breathe.

***

Now that Jaskier had found his opening, it carried on like this for days. Lambert picked at Jaskier’s clothing choices; his appetite; his relations with Eskel; his work in the library; he tried anything to get a rise. Jaskier simply replied with unadulterated affection and offers of love.

He could see it was wearing the cantankerous Witcher down, because he tended to _avoid_ Jaskier rather than confront him. Taking huge detours around the _entire perimeter_ of the castle just to avoid a single room in the middle, and waiting outside Eskel’s room in the mornings if he was on ‘bard duty’ as Vesemir called it. 

Lambert had been trying to drive Jaskier away, but everytime he opened his mouth, the bard was just clinging closer and he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it. His inability to approach Eskel with Jaskier there was just making it worse. It came to a head one evening. As it had to.

“Do you think you could keep the noise down tonight? I haven’t had a decent fucking night's sleep in weeks.” Lambert growled into his goblet after dinner; Vesemir had retired early as was his way, and it left the three of them to get pleasantly hazy before bed.

“You’re welcome to come and join. I find volume tends to be a reflection on how good a time the person is having.”

“You sound like a cheap hooker.”

“That’s because I love it when Eskel treats me like one.” Jaskier’s smirk was somewhat feral, and Lambert finally snapped.

“You know what, this ends. Now. Name your battleground.”

Eskel moved to stand, his mouth open to protest, but Jaskier rested a hand on his elbow. “Hmm, very well. No swords at dawn though, I wouldn’t last two seconds. We need a more even arena. How about Gwent?”

“Done. If I win, you leave Kaer Morhen, and I never see you again. Ever.” He was reaching inside his jacket as he spoke, and slammed his deck on the table to punctuate his demand.

“Hmm,” Jaskier tilted his head to the sides, eyes flickering across to Eskel, who looked more than a little concerned, and then back across to the tense ball of fury sitting opposite him. “I accept your terms. If I win,” he shuffled forward in his seat, “you will put on one of the collars from the old stables, kneel at Eskel’s feet shirtless, and lick milk from a bowl like the little kitten you really are. And if you’re a good kitten, he’ll pet you and tell you as such.”

Lambert’s fists slammed on the table and he rose to his feet, leaning across until he was staring Jaskier dead in the eye. The anger was measured, controlled as it always was, but there was a fire behind his eyes with an unknown origin. The bard didn’t even flinch, and Eskel didn’t smell a single iota of fear in the air. Eventually, his brother grated out his answer, “Fine. Best out of five. I win, you leave in the morning, you win, I’ll do your forfeit tomorrow evening.”

Jaskier grinned and left only long enough to retrieve his Gwent cards from his pack. Despite a valiant effort in the first two rounds, Jaskier absolutely destroyed Lambert in the following three. The Witcher rose stiffly from his chair and stalked to bed without a word.

***

“He won’t do it, Jaskier,” Eskel murmured, sitting in an armchair by the fire in his room. They’d chosen Eskel’s room because it was cozy and safe. There was no reason for Lambert to worry that Vesemir might turn up and see him lapping milk at Eskel’s feet; he may give the old man grief, but he did value his reputation with him. “I’m staying with you tomorrow morning, in case he decides to remove you by force.”

Jaskier leaned back and then lifted his feet from the floor. “I think you underestimate how much he’s craving your attention,” he smiled, rather mischievous. “And I also think he’ll enjoy it more than he realises. Everything you’ve told me, everything I’ve seen, it’s textbook submissive. He wants nothing more than for someone to look after him, pet him and tell him he’s a good boy. Just needs to overcome his pride. _And,_ once he’s over this hurdle, he’ll seek you out for more. Guaranteed.” 

Eskel snorted and rubbed his eyes. “You are…” he searched for the word, and the same one came back as it always did, “breathtaking.” Met with a broad, toothy grin.

They didn’t have to wait long. Lambert was punctual, and the door closed quietly behind him. Eskel managed to school his face as he approached the fireplace. Head still high, even if he wasn’t actually looking at anyone, and his jaw clenched. Jaskier hopped to his feet and grabbed the collar he’d retrieved from the stable earlier in the day; black leather, with a relatively unobtrusive buckle, he’d taken care to scrub it clean and make it smell fresh. Witchers were sensitive like that. 

Only marginally shorter than Lambert, he stepped up to him while his shirt was still on and lifted the collar carefully to his throat. _This was a Witcher that could tear his head off with a mere flick of his wrist, after all._ There was a moment when Lambert's upper lip twitched in threat, but he remained perfectly still as Jaskier buckled it around his neck and managed to resist the _‘good kitten’_ bubbling in the back of his throat. _It took a lot of self control, dear reader._ Once he’d slipped a finger underneath to test the tightness, he returned to his seat and folded his feet beneath his rear.

“You’re staying?” Lambert grated out, his voice only slightly hoarse.

“Yes, my forfeit. Eskel’s soft. He’d let you off if I wasn’t in the room.”

Eskel opened his mouth to argue, but quickly closed it and nodded in agreement. Lambert pressed his lips tightly together, but took his shirt off anyway, dropping it unceremoniously to the floor. “For fuck’s sake…” Growled quietly under his breath.

Just like both his fellow Witchers, Lambert’s physique was a marvel and Jaskier couldn’t help but run his eyes _all over_ it when his back was turned. The usual tapestry of scarring over an athletic build, a light dusting of dark hair on his chest and down the centre of his abdomen only glimpsed briefly before he turned. Suddenly Eskel’s heart was a very cozy, attractive place and Jaskier rather liked being the one in the centre.

Eskel leaned to the side and retrieved the bowl of milk, placing it carefully at his feet, while watching Lambert’s body language. He was tense, and uncertain, but still defiant of any feeling of shame. Fulfilling an embarrassing wager was not anything new; he had once streaked naked through the centre of Novigrad after losing at darts. After only a moment of hesitation, Lambert sank slowly to his knees; he remained upright at first, eyeing the bowl of milk and Eskel’s boots, his hands planted on his thighs as they would be in meditation. 

A steadying sigh through his nose and his hands dropped away to the floor either side of Eskel’s feet. Shoulders lowering, he hovered his face over the milk for a moment longer, before tentatively lapping at the surface. Eskel glanced up at Jaskier for a mere second to try and communicate his shock, but the bard was too busy admiring the tight curves of Lambert’s ass in his leather trousers. When Eskel looked back, two amber eyes rolled up to look at him. _Eye contact_. Nothing to hide. 

Eskel watched the milk roll over Lambert’s tongue and admired those big, black pupils that only got wider when their owner realised Eskel was rather enjoying the view. He raised his head when the majority was gone, and his tongue darted out to capture a droplet escaping the corner of his lips. Eskel felt glorious tension coil in the pit of his stomach. _Fuck._ Without thinking he leaned forward and hooked two fingers through that collar to haul Lambert up between his knees. A quiet grunt of surprise, but the Witcher rose obediently and his hands rested lightly on the top of Eskel’s thighs. 

The look on Lambert’s face was a thing of beauty. His pupils were so big that there was only a thin ring of gold around the edges, brow relaxed and lips parted, he looked almost breathless. Eskel rubbed the side of his face against Lambert’s as they always did, rumbling in quiet delight as his stubble prickled across his scarred skin; his hand stroked down over his head and neck, fingers caressing in light circles. When he spoke, he _knew_ his pleasure was clear in his voice, because watching Lambert enjoy himself to this degree was a seriously powerful aphrodisiac, “Good boy.” 

Lambert’s breath stuttered in his chest. His nipples were hard and the scent of arousal was thick on his skin as Eskel leaned close to his ear. “Purr for me.” Two fingers still hooked through the collar, he stroked his palm back over Lambert’s head and neck again, sweeping across his shoulders until he heard the quiet, almost imperceptible rumble he was waiting for and Lambert’s eyes were closed. The final confirmation he needed. 

“Do you want anything else from me this evening?” Lambert looked at him carefully, and then slowly shook his head. “Alright.” He slipped his fingers loose and undid the buckle at the back of Lambert’s neck. The other rose slowly to his feet, not even bothering to hide the straining line of his erection down the right leg of his trousers as he took the collar from Eskel’s hand, stooped for his shirt and left.

Jaskier opened his mouth to speak, but Eskel lifted a staying hand as he listened to retreating footfalls. Only once they faded, did he drop his palm to his lap, and Jaskier grinned. “Well?”

“I’ve never seen him like that. He… you were right. I thought he was about to come in his braies. It’s a shame you can’t smell it when… I mean, _fuck,_ ” Eskel shifted uncomfortably in the armchair. “I am actually devastated he didn’t want anything else. Get that wicked mouth over here and sort this out.” He jabbed a finger down at his own lap. Jaskier didn’t need telling twice and sprang from his seat to drop down in Lambert’s place. Eskel checked on Lambert later - Jaskier pointed out that a negative reaction could settle in some time after - but only found him sleeping peacefully, with the collar coiled on his bedside table. _Hmm._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings:
> 
> [I Won't Give Up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=koHStH4SKkw) Collabro 3:44
> 
> Jaskier knew he wasn't going to win this battle with wit and cunning; an all-out love offensive was needed.


	19. From The Mists

Jaskier's relationship with Lambert settled into something a bit more manageable. The snark was still very much present, but it was more on par with what Eskel endured, which, considering how much Lambert clearly _loved_ Eskel, was somewhat of a compliment. Instead of morose verbal attacks over their evening drinks, Jaskier got to experience the energetic, humorous man Eskel had gushed about on the trail. 

" _A fight can be cut short by daubing the appropriate decoction 'pon thy sword_ ," Lambert announced to the hall, sweeping a hand across the wide brim of the grey bonnet he coveted about as much as his moonshine supply. " _Witchers do not suffer damsels, for a damsel shall always lead to a betrothed._ Actually, he was fuckin' right on that one." Eskel snorted into his drink, and Jaskier grinned. _Yes, yes he was…_

Lambert dropped onto the bench next to Jaskier and kicked Eskel under the table. "One game, then I'm going to bed. Getting up early for fishing tomorrow."

Eskel sighed and pulled out his Monster deck. "Nothing like bomb shrapnel with your trout."

Lambert grinned. "Atta' boy."

One evening later in the week, Jaskier worked late with Vesemir in the library, showing him by candelabrum some of his most recent discoveries under the decades worth of dust. When he finally returned to Eskel's room, he found Eskel propped up in bed reading, with Lambert sprawled over his legs like a large cat.

Eskel was fully clothed still, but Lambert was shirtless and Jaskier noted, with no small amount of pleasure, that he was wearing his collar. He lay on his front, his head on Eskel's thigh, and his body resting comfortably between slightly parted legs. Eskel idly stroked over his short-cropped hair and down his neck, forefinger tracing the line where skin met leather. As Jaskier approached, footfalls soft, Lambert stretched. It was the long, shuddering stretch of a feline waking from deep sleep, but rather than get up, he rolled onto his back and nestled comfortably once more. 

Eskel scratched blunt nails through his stubble and Lambert tilted his head back for more. Jaskier grinned, his voice low. "Sorry, that took longer than I expected." He shimmied from his doublet and breeches, and climbed under the blankets in just his smalls.

When Lambert let out a quiet warning growl, Eskel snapped his book shut and immediately seized his collar, tugging it until Lambert's neck arched. "If you growl at him again, you'll be sleeping at my feet." The expected sarcastic retort didn't appear, and Lambert settled back with a quiet rumble of acceptance. _Interesting._ Jaskier shuffled until he was pressed to Eskel's side, separated only by the blankets tugged up to his waist. Lambert watched him lazily, but his expression remained passive, pupils big. He looked absolutely spaced. _A delight._

Jaskier's eyes flickered over that athletic torso, the ripple of his abdomen as he breathed, slow and deep, and the hard-line of a partial erection beneath his trousers. This body was younger, slightly less scarred, muscular; built to execute all the acrobatics that had facilitated his mischief over the last few weeks. Jaskier was calculating the quickest, least deadly way to get his mouth working down the muscles on that lean stomach when Eskel took one of his hands and guided it to Lambert's chest. No flinch or protest from either party, so Eskel flattened his hand over Jaskier's fingers to push his palm flush to Lambert's skin. 

The deep, sure thrum of Lambert's heart practically reverberated up Jaskier's wrist, harmonising with his until he wasn't entirely sure whose heartbeat he was feeling inside his own chest. At some point his eyes must have slipped closed, because they flickered open again when a deep rumble vibrated beneath his palm. Eskel was using both hands to rub and scratch in small, firm circles through Lambert's stubble, cupping around his jaw, behind his ears and down his neck to his shoulders; Lambert was _loving life._ Head tilted back into Eskel’s lap and skin prickled with goosebumps. Eskel's eyes were practically aglow, and he glanced across to Jaskier with a pleased grin.

Every time, for the last handful of decades, Eskel’s liaisons with Lambert had either been silent, slightly breathless or accented with his familiar brand of sarcasm. Protecting himself _just in case_ this man he trusted to give him comfort might decide to hurt him in the end anyway. But this… _this_ was something truly special. Lambert was melting into the bed without inhibition, happy to be told to behave, to have responsibility taken away, to communicate his enjoyment in more than just suppressed, breathy pants. A mere taste from all those nights ago had him hooked. When his big arms curled upwards, one latched behind Eskel's hip, but the other found Jaskier, hand tucking just behind his back.

Jaskier stroked his chest in lazy circles until he leaned forward and brushed his lips very gently across Lambert’s heart - in his mind, a promise not to break the trust he was being given - when the Witcher’s eyes settled on his face, they were inquisitive at first, and then slowly melted to soft and grateful. _Accepted._

Jaskier's hand traced down each curved abdominal muscle, and then back up again to sweep over prominent pectorals. Lambert purred again, and Eskel smoothed his thumbs over his eyebrows, causing those golden eyes to flicker closed briefly. "Such a good boy for me," Eskel watched pupils blow instantly wide, enhanced when he gently tugged the collar against Lambert's skin. "Is this all you want from us tonight?" A slow nod, and Eskel patted him lightly on the shoulder. "Let me get ready for bed." Lambert was slow to trust and quick to doubt. It was important they took everything at his pace and gave him time to navigate his own mind and emotions; submissive was not known territory for him, and he was feeling his way with tentative hands.

Eskel shuffled out of bed, stripped his shirt and trousers away, snuffed out the candles, and hopped back into settle in the middle in record time; it was too bloody cold to be out of this nest of body heat, even if the hearth still blazing away merrily. They both sidled up close and got comfortable, Jaskier curled to his side as he always did. Lambert turned so he faced out of the bed, but was still flush with Eskel's body, arm pulled up over his chest; he liked to have something he could trust at his back. 

At some point in the early morning, Lambert slipped away to wash and get ready for the day. Eskel and Jaskier were awoken by a loud hammering on their door before the sun was even fully up, "Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey, lovebirds. Eskel, get your fat ass to the courtyard. Vesemir wants to run some drills." And then the sound of his footsteps retreating.

Jaskier groaned into Eskel's chest. "Why can't we keep the collar on him all the time?"

"I think I'd actually miss this version," Eskel rolled out of bed, scrubbing his hands over his eyes. "I might have changed my mind by the end of the day."

Eskel had definitely changed his mind by the end of the day, and was weighing up the pros and cons of a gag as the next prop. 

***

“Start with E minor - _if this is to end in_ \- and G - _fire, then we should -_ and D - _all burn_ \- and C - _together, watch the_ \- and E minor,” Jaskier reached forward and adjusted Eskel’s forefinger onto the correct string, and the Witcher grunted. “Don’t get annoyed with yourself. You did it perfectly the time before.” Jaskier was teaching Eskel how to play his song; they’d called it ‘Massacre of Kaer Morhen’, because the elves hadn’t given it a name. They were getting there, but Eskel was still getting his fingers in a muddle during some transitions. Thankfully Witchers were the stubborn, relentless type, and he wasn’t giving up.

The snow was beginning to fall in earnest. Tomorrow Eskel and Vesemir would make the last supply run down the mountain and then the valley would become impassable for nearly a month. Rather than use up all of their fuel warming the grand hall, they had retired to their respective rooms to keep smaller hearths that would heat the room for the night in just a few hours. Jaskier sat cross-legged on the black bear rug, while Eskel sat up in the armchair so that the strings were at Jaskier’s eye level.

“I know, that’s why it’s frustrating,” Eskel murmured, lifting his fingers from the fretboard and stretching them out. “I don’t know how you cram your hands into these positions for hours on end.”

“Practice. I have no idea how you lift that sword and manage to make it look light as a feather,” Jaskier took that big hand in both of his and worked his thumbs carefully over each finger. “At least you have the calluses already; that’s the worst bit about learning a string instrument when you’re starting out. Better?”

“Mmm.” Eskel leaned down to the right to grab his drink. In the bleak gloom of the winter evening, the song was beginning to wear on him anyway. “Can we leave it for tonight?”

Jaskier smiled and pulled the lute from his lap, with a gentle kiss placed on those wine-soaked lips. “Of course. It’s not like we won’t have time to kill when the pass is completely full of snow,” he paused, and then heaved a sigh. It was difficult to concentrate anyway. For the last couple of days, his mind had been elsewhere. “Eskel, umm… I have a request, uh…”

The Witcher leaned forward and tucked a hand under Jaskier’s chin to lift his eyes from the floor. “Don’t shy from me, Jaskier. Just ask.” 

“I haven’t been able to go into Geralt’s room. I’ve... I know you said we’d do it together, and, well… I know you don’t-- I know it’s hard for you, so I didn’t want to ask, but,” he rolled his lower lip into his mouth, because he just _knew_ that Eskel was carefully moderating his emotions to keep them in check, and knowing that was even worse than watching the sadness bleed through his golden eyes. “I’m sorry. We don’t have to.” 

He didn’t know why _now._ Grief could be like that, couldn’t it? Everything is sailing merrily along, hearts are healing, smiles are reappearing, loving relationships are forming, scars are _fading_ , and then out of nowhere, it rears its head; _how dare you move on, how dare you forget._ He’d been doing so well. So _happy_. Content. But it had started a few days ago; an overwhelming, nagging feeling in the back of his mind, as if he needed for just a moment to rest his hand upon Geralt’s arm and then it would all be fine. Without the man himself, his room would have to do.

“No, come on. You’re right,” Eskel pushed himself from his chair and took Jaskier’s hand to help him off the floor. It was so close. Eskel walked past it every damn day, and yet he’d only looked in it twice since Geralt’s death. Once to roar at the injustice, and the second time to just stand and stare at the emptiness. Perhaps there would be fewer ghosts in there with Jaskier at his side. He twisted the handle and shimmied the hinges with his shoulder until the heavy door swung open, and led Jaskier inside.

The room was cold. The grey flagstones hadn’t been absorbing the heat from a winter’s worth of fires, and Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself as he walked into the middle. He could see Geralt here - his weapons, his sets of armour. There was a less full wall of books, but the shelves were still sagging under the weight, an overflowing box of Gwent cards, some bottles of dwarven beer, tapestries, coats of arms and one wall absolutely covered in maps and sketches. Some of them from children.

Jaskier stood before it and examined each tattered poster and piece of parchment with a small smile. Geralt was a collector of _memories_ rather than _things._ Of course he was. However, below was a long shelf covered in assorted items; eclectic and with no particular order. Everything from random timepieces, to ornate knives, pots and even an item of jewellery or two. 

“What are these?” Jaskier ran his fingers over a pearl necklace.

“Gifts. Sometimes people are so grateful they give something extra, in addition to the money,” Eskel nudged open a small music box and wound it up until its sweet melody filled the quiet. “He could have just pawned them, but he liked the reminder that what we do is important. It’s easy to forget in the dead of winter, when you’re freezing your bollocks off in a burnt out castle. The Continent still needs us, even if it doesn’t want us.” 

Eskel walked away to the window ledge and gazed down at the small portrait on the sill. His fingers curled gently around it and brought it up to his chest. Ciri beamed up at him, her cheeks still slightly chubby, her eyes alight. He pressed a kiss upon the frame before he placed it back in the window. _He hadn’t seen her in years._ Not since before the pogrom. Perhaps one day she would come home. 

Jaskier’s arms appeared around his waist, and he buried his face into the back of Eskel’s shirt to stem his tears. “I still miss him, you know, I can’t -,” Jaskier’s voice was muffled, and Eskel pulled his arms away so he could turn and haul him against his chest, “I sometimes find myself turning to talk to him, you know, in the library. And, I don’t know why, but the feeling just got stronger today and -.” 

“It’s alright,” Eskel rubbed a palm over the back of Jaskier’s head. “I miss him too. All the time. You don’t need to explain yourself to me.”

Eskel stood in the centre of Geralt’s room, with its hollow traces of the man they both still loved, holding Jaskier as he wept.

***

“Another twenty minutes, I’d say,” Vesemir murmured quietly, “I don’t think I’ve ever looked forward to a stein of Lambert’s moonshine, but I think that’s what it’ll take to warm me up.”

Eskel smiled and nodded in agreement, leaning back on the cart’s bench and stretching his legs. This was the last cart of supplies that would make its way up this path for the winter; the sun was beginning to set and the dark skies were threatening more snow. 

They were almost home and Eskel was looking forward to slipping into bed and putting _all_ of his cold extremities all over Jaskier. He’d squawk and curse in all the clever, colourful ways he knew how. Lover. Warrior poet. Spy. Wine connoisseur. Foot warmer. _A man of many titles and talents._

“What you smilin’ at?” Vesemir smirked at him.

“Oh, nothing.”

“It’s that bard, isn’t it? You know, I’m glad.”

Eskel blinked and gave Vesemir the side-eye; he wasn’t sure whether he was ready, after nearly a hundred years, to discuss relationships with his fencing instructor. 

Vesemir glanced back at him. “Don’t look at me like that. He makes you happy, happier than I’ve seen you in _a long_ time, and that makes _me_ happy.”

“You’re going soft in your old age,” he grinned in the opposite direction, and then grunted at the elbow he received in the ribs. 

“Not too soft to let you off running the Killer if you keep taking the piss.”

“Mmm.” 

They rode the cart in silence for another five minutes. The old wooden wheels clattered and creaked across stones and pebbles, and Eskel made himself a mental note to check it over before he left next season.

_"Eskel."_

He sat up suddenly, and Vesemir tensed too. Eskel twisted on the bench, ears and eyes alert. “Did you hear that?”

_"Eskel. Don’t leave me."_

“Vesemir, that’s… that’s Geralt.” Eskel leaned back into the cart and grabbed his swords. He was off onto the track with the belt slung over his shoulders before Vesemir could snag his cloak and keep him seated.

“ _Eskel_ , get back on this cart, don’t be so fuckin’ stupid. Foglets. It’s _foglets_ , boy. _Listen to it.”_ Vesemir growled.

Eskel wasn’t listening, not to Vesemir. He was pacing frantically up and down the path, waiting for the call again, his head cocked to the side.

**_"ESKEL!"_ **

He broke into a sprint into the treeline and Vesemir swore. Reins of the horses lashed quickly around a branch, and a silent prayer that no bandits bothered to head this high with snows on their way, Vesemir grabbed his own swords and ran after him.

If Eskel had been paying attention - if he hadn’t been blinded by the _voice_ that called for him - he would have realised where he was. He was no more than fifteen miles away from the cave where Geralt had rescued him from an early death at the hands of the adolescent wyvern during his Trial of the Mountain. _Decades ago_ . The same mists that had cloaked the forests and slopes of Morhen Valley after those rains were now coalescing once more. With so many deaths in these hills, it was pure coincidence that they had chosen _that_ particular collective memory. Right?

He burst into the mists with his sword drawn and his Quen shield up, his teeth clenched. _Foglets._ Stupid. _Fucking stupid, Eskel._ The first lurched from the mist and he struck through it with a wide upwards arc; another shattered against his Quen shield and he spun to meet it with a riposte when it recovered. Vesemir was at his side seconds later and they fought back-to-back to minimise the angles of attack. Eskel let off a roaring igni to buy them some space, and several of the foglets screeched in agony.

It was a frantic seven minutes of fighting, but as his medallion stilled, he slouched to catch his breath. Vesemir turned to berate him, “Of all the Witchers to be fooled by a pack of fuckin’ foglets, I -,” the old Witcher stopped as the mists began to dissipate, and Eskel looked up, following his eyes. Vesemir’s voice was no more than a gasp. “No.”

Face down in the snow was a figure, partially blanketed with it; no cloak, but his wolf school armour was visible even from this distance, as were the two swords slung across his back. Eskel approached slowly, his lungs barely functioning, his silver sword still clutched in his hand. All sense of caution was thrown to the wind when he realised the figure’s head _wasn’t_ covered in snow; _his_ hair was white. 

_Geralt._

Eskel dashed forward and skidded to his knees. He secured a hand around one leather pauldron and yanked Geralt over onto his back. “Geralt, is - ? Geralt?” _Could barely breathe._ His face had a healthy beard, and his eyes were closed, but he looked _exactly_ as he had when Eskel had last seen him, right down to the armour on his back. He threw his sword to the side and reached out with shaking hands.

“Eskel! Test it. It might be a doppler.” Vesemir staggered over and rested the flat of his blade against the side of Geralt’s face; no reaction. The shape held and Geralt’s - _because it was fucking Geralt -_ breathing remained even. Eskel threw himself forward and gripped the collar of Geralt’s shirt, burying his face against his neck and inhaling his scent until his chest felt like it was about to burst. _Definitely Geralt._ That scent was so ingrained in his _soul_ that he couldn’t miss it.

“He’s… his skin is blue, we need to get him back,” Eskel pressed his fingers to the side of Geralt’s neck; his pulse was still there, but it was slow, _very_ slow. His body was trying to survive by slowing everything down. He didn’t have long. One arm snatched from where it lay limp in the snow and pulled around Eskel's back, he pulled him from the ground and over his shoulder. 

They reached the cart at a sprint and Eskel stripped his cloak away from his shoulders after laying Geralt in the back. He climbed in with him and pulled him close, whispering into his ear even as he willed him to hold on. “I’m taking you home, Geralt. Stay with me. We’re going home.” 

Vesemir made the last few miles home in record time.

The next time Eskel’s mind was able to register anything he was in his own room and yanking Geralt’s armour from him; his fingers were barely able to hook through the buckles, but Jaskier was opposite and helping with a practiced hand. Even after all these years, he knew the map of Geralt’s armour as intimately as his lute strings. Lambert was piling wood into the fire, and Vesemir had gone to retrieve more woollen blankets from Geralt’s old room to pile on top. 

“Jaskier, clothes off, body heat,” Eskel, unable to form coherent thoughts let alone sentences, pulled his own shirt over his head and shucked his trousers off. Together, they slid under the blankets and hugged close to Geralt’s body. He felt like a shard of ice, and Jaskier clenched his teeth in pain as his body immediately began to quake. Tears ran unbidden down his face, but he just let them pool on Geralt's pale skin.

There was no time to process his emotions. When Eskel had burst into the grand hall with a limp body over his shoulder and an expression which could only be described as terrified urgency, somehow Jaskier had just _known._ He gripped onto the solid, freezing form next to him now with every ounce of strength he had. At some point, he found Eskel’s hand on Geralt’s chest, and those strong fingers squeezed into his, as much seeking strength and reassurance as giving it.

_Don’t leave us again._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note for those that might be uncertain on the lore here.
> 
> Foglets: ugly goblins that appear whenever thick fog arises, or they can create it themselves. They emit light to lure travelers and usually wait for them to go mad, lure them off cliffs or into swamps to drown. They are masters of deception and disorientation; they can imitate voices and shapes they have witnessed. These same foglets were in the storm that Geralt and Eskel waited out while Eskel was injured. I think that is everything relevant. If anyone wishes to correct me here, feel free to leave a comment.


	20. Lighthouse

Geralt’s temperature eventually returned to normal; they monitored him closely, trying to make the process gradual, but both Eskel and Jaskier remained plastered to his side until they grew dizzy with hunger and Vesemir demanded they deal with the necessities. Three days later, Jaskier sat on one side, and Eskel on the other with their meals finished, bodies bathed and clothes back in place. 

Jaskier spoke first, his voice a croak. “How is this possible? The witnesses _saw_ him die.”

“I don’t know. I can only imagine Ciri might have something to do with it, but I really couldn’t even begin to explain how,” Eskel was running his fingers over four new scars on Geralt’s chest; they were thin and slightly raised, and matched ones on his back. _The pitchfork had gone all the way through._ The evidence of his death still marked his body. And yet. _Here he was._ “When he’s conscious, he might be able to tell us.”

Geralt remained restful. Like something had placed him in a deep sleep. And there had been no signs that he was about to surface. Vesemir stepped back into the room now and cleared his throat. “There’s no point the both of you sitting here watching him,” he folded his arms. “Take it in shifts. We all will. If we don’t attend to winter preparations, we’ll all freeze and starve anyway, and he’ll wake up to a pile of corpses.” 

Eskel and Jaskier both stood at the same time in an attempt to give each other the first watch. Not because they wanted to leave, but because they didn’t want to force the _other_ to. Eskel smiled gently, and straightened. “Jaskier, you first. I’ll relieve you in three hours.” The bard lowered himself slowly back into the chair. Eskel leaned across Geralt, kissed his forehead and then his lips; he didn’t care that Vesemir was standing there. _The old man knew._ He had known all those decades ago, and he didn’t even bat an eye now. “If he wakes, just shout. One of us will hear you.” He ran his hand through Jaskier’s hair as he left. And then they were gone.

Jaskier sat there and stared. Ten minutes later, he shuffled closer, barely able to breathe.

A hand reached for one of Geralt’s to hold it, and then quickly drew away. He didn’t have the same right as Eskel. Geralt had turned him away. Geralt didn’t want him. If there was a list of people Geralt would want at his bedside watching over him, Jaskier would be at the bottom. Perhaps not even on it at all. 

“Yet here we are.” Voice hoarse, he dropped his face into his palms.

For the first three hours sitting at Geralt’s bedside on his own, Jaskier cried.

***

They took it in shifts as Vesemir instructed. They all ended up just talking with him as if he were conscious. None of them sat down and _agreed_ to it. It just happened.

Eskel told him about everything that had happened in the time he’d been gone, and when he ran out of topics about the present he went further back to their childhood at Kaer Morhen, just recounting any tale that popped into his head, and then when he exhausted those, he began to read. Vesemir chatted about Morhen Valley and some of the pests that had moved in; bandits, Scoia'tael and monsters. Lambert informed him all about the antics he got up to while on the Path; beating up brothel owners, exploding a dam by accident while fishing, streaking naked through Novigrad, hanging out with the School of Cat. And Jaskier… Jaskier sang.

He didn’t mean to at first. A large part of his mind was very quick to remind him that _singing_ had been one of the main things to drive Geralt away. There was also his penchant for getting into trouble. But actually, Geralt needed to apologise to him too, so he could listen to some damn singing. It might bring him out of his deep sleep just to tell Jaskier to shut up, so there was that possibility too.

“How about this one? _I’m your biggest fan, I’ll follow you until you love me, baby, you’ll be famous_. No, you’re right, that’s a bit on the nose, isn’t it?” He laughed awkwardly, and then clasped his hands, wrung his fingers and leaned back. Where were his lyrics? So many songs in his head, and yet no words rising in his mind. Only one song really, but he hadn’t really _rehearsed_ it properly yet. 

Eskel walked down the hall, but paused at the door when he heard Jaskier start talking. He turned and leaned against the wall. Jaskier was upset every time he finished his ‘shift’ at Geralt's side, and if he was able to talk some of that out, then he deserved the right.

“Geralt, I - I do have one. I wrote it for Eskel, actually. You know, he - he saved me. From myself. I was thinking of taking my own life when I heard of your death, I, uh - I rather cut up my palm for starters, makes playing quite an ordeal sometimes. I was on my way to settle some affairs, and then I was going to do it, but he just - he just appeared in the street and I ran _at_ him,” he lifted his left hand as if Geralt could see, and then laughed, sadly, at his own confession, “and he was there just as I needed him. I was so fragile, and he was this beautiful, pure, kind angel and I know you love him; _I_ love him. He loves you very much. So, I’m going to sing it to you, and - you need to listen to the words. Then, perhaps you can give me some feedback? Three words or less.” 

Jaskier cleared his throat, and started tentatively.

> _“Whenever I feel,  
>  I’m all by myself,  
>  And every word is a cry for help,  
>  I just think of you and then,  
>  I’m safe again,  
>  I feel you close though you’re somewhere else._
> 
> _You hold my hand,  
>  Wherever I lay,  
>  And you guide me through come what may,  
>  Bring the silence through the noise,  
>  I still hear your voice,  
>  I remember what I heard you say._
> 
> _I’ll be your lighthouse,  
>  Shining bright from dusk ‘til dawn,  
>  I’ll sing our song aloud,  
>  So you’ll hear a voice you know,  
>  You’ll find that somehow,  
>  Wherever you are, wherever I am,   
>  Is home.”* _

Eskel opened the door and was at Jaskier’s side in an instant. He heard the tears before he saw them, and knelt down at his lover’s feet. Big hands scooped up shaking ones and he pressed his mouth to Jaskier’s quivering lips. The tears stained his face; he felt their heat against the scars on his cheeks and the dampness on his shirt. _They might even be his._ He wasn’t even sure. 

“Look at me,” Eskel’s voice, hoarse and broken, grated from his chest like tumbling rock. “Jaskier, look at me.” Slowly, two watery blue eyes lifted from the floor and focused on the intense golden ones below. “You are my everything. Do you understand that?” 

Jaskier’s heart felt like it was about to burst out of his throat, and he couldn’t look into Eskel’s eyes any longer, but when he tried to look away, Eskel took his chin and made him. “Tell me you understand.”

“Y-yes,” he stuttered out, and sighed in relief when Eskel nuzzled his face across the side of his. The same act of affection he shared with Lambert, Jaskier realised. _Family._ His shoulders relaxed and he flopped back in the chair. “Eskel, I can’t even touch him. I feel like an intruder. I - I shouldn’t be here. He would be… _so_ mortified.” 

Eskel grabbed one of Geralt’s hands, warm but inert, and wrapped it around Jaskier’s shaking fingers. “He is a man of many regrets, Jaskier. Many, _many_ regrets. It comes with the territory,” he paused, “but one of his biggest was leaving you on that mountainside. His words. And now he has the opportunity to get down on his fucking knees and beg your forgiveness. But you have to _be here_ for that.” The emphasis on those two words was too heavy for Jaskier not to notice, and he looked at Eskel in alarm when he realised he must have _heard_.

“Eskel, I would never - not now, I -,” he tried to look away, but Eskel had his face again.

“Good. Because I’d come and get you. Not sure how the other side feels about Witchers, so that could get interesting.” The toothy grin he flashed earned a chuckle, and Jaskier tilted against his shoulder. “We’re going to move Geralt into his room tomorrow. It might be less jarring if he wakes up surrounded by all of his own stuff. And you and I can get some proper rest.” 

“Alright,” Eskel sat down at Jaskier’s feet, and reached under the bed for the book he had stashed there on his last sitting. “This one is called the _Fae and Her Knight: Adventures in Redania._ ”

“I’m the fae, you’re the knight, go ahead,” Jaskier leaned back, threw his legs over the arm of the chair, still holding Geralt’s hand.

“In that case, if they don’t fuck, I’m going to be sorely disappointed.”

“You and me both, dear heart.”

***

> _“My soul for hers, Eredin.”_
> 
> _“You realise it is an eternity of servitude, Witcher.”_
> 
> _Falling snow. Demonic horses paw at the ice in the darkness. Yet Geralt stares up into the soulless skull without fear._
> 
> _“I’m already dead. Me for her. Take the offer.”_

Geralt’s eyes opened slowly, adjusting to the dim winter light streaming in through the window, they turned quickly around his immediate space and found no threat. Cautiously, he sat up and the blankets fell away from his chest. The room had a tall ceiling and a blazing fire; one wall was heaped with books, and the other scattered with images and maps. Beneath sat a long shelf covered in debris and harmless items. 

> _Not useful._

He shifted his legs to the edge of the bed, one eye still on the door as he crouched low to the floor. Armour and swords at the far end. 

> _Useful._
> 
> _Low to the ground. Move silently in unknown territory._

He found a set of clothes that looked about his size and pulled them on without ceremony, quickly strapping the armour in place, and ducking into the sword belts. It felt like the few familiar items in the whole room and settled him back into a natural rhythm.

Still crouched low, he approached the door and paused at the threshold, listening. Silent but for the howling of wind down corridors and in tall rafters. He slipped down the hallway and found a flight of stairs. 

> _Where the fuck am I?_

Then the pronoun caught him off-guard. 

> _Who? Who the fuck am I?_

His heart raced in his ears, and he crouched down behind some fallen stone at the bottom of the stairs to quieten it. It came easily under his control and his breathing levelled. Needed an escape route. He backed into some shadows and hunkered low when he heard voices passing down at the end of the hall.

“We really need to get that eastern wall finished.” Eskel murmured, rubbing a hand over his face.

“Not while the snow’s that heavy. Give it a couple more weeks to thaw and then we can set to it straight away.” Vesemir patted him on the back, and they continued further down the corridor.

Geralt slipped past the mouth of the corridor and then finally out into a large hall. He could see the exit. Once he was outside, he could scale somewhere high and figure out where he was. No idea _how._ Making this up as he went along. He was halfway across the hall when someone stepped out from another corridor; armed.

“Geralt! You big oaf, you’re awake!” Lambert held his hands up, his grin broad. However, that smile faltered as Geralt began to stalk forward, expression thunderous, his right hand securing around one of the hilts jutting over his shoulder. “Geralt? _Geralt._ ” Lambert backtracked quickly as Geralt’s blade grated out of its scabbard, and then dipped and weaved around the first three swings. “Geralt! Stop! It’s me.” 

Not a flicker of recognition, and Lambert pushed him back with Aard. Or tried to, but Quen flared to life in metallic orange around Geralt’s body and absorbed the impact. It gave Lambert enough time to tear the steel sword from his back, and he began to meet the relentless cuts and jabs heading his way. _All attempts at killing blows._ He parried, weaved, and once dived to the left to avoid a flare of Igni as it almost set him alight; his Quen shield wasn’t _ready_ to absorb another blow. A deft roll brought him back to his feet, and Geralt circled him.

“ _Geralt,_ look at me. It’s Lambert. Brother, stop this now. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Swordmaster Varin always had a saying while they were training. _A man that fights with half his heart, lasts half as long._ That had always stuck with Lambert throughout his years on the Path, and he ensured he went into every bout with _all_ of his heart. _Because like fuck was he going to get killed by some soldier or bandit._

Until now. 

Lambert wasn’t trying to kill his brother, and so he was always bound to lose, because Geralt was _definitely_ trying to kill him. He span, ducked and parried without counter while trying to reason with his opponent through his exertion, but in the end Geralt gained the upper-hand. A well timed swipe cut through Lambert’s side and staggered him. It wasn’t a fatal wound immediately, but deep enough to put him on the backfoot. 

Diving in close, Geralt managed to weave his left arm through Lambert’s sword arm and with an ear-splitting crack dislocated his shoulder, and then broke his forearm to fully disable his ability to wield. The steel sword clattered to the floor as Lambert yelled in pain, fingers slack as ligaments and tendons tore around the fractured bone. His cry was silenced only by the hilt-inforced fist that drove repeatedly into his face until his head swam and he fell to the floor…

Jaskier had been on duty at Geralt’s bedside. He’d popped out quickly to relieve himself and grab his lute, and when he returned Geralt was gone. Relief - he’s awake, _alive_ \- followed swiftly by panic - _not here_ . “Geralt?” _Silence. Fuck._ The bard dashed out into the corridor and looked up and down it. _If I were Geralt…_ Staircase. He dashed towards it and began descending two at a time. 

The sound of clashing steel only made him move faster, and he entered the hall just as Geralt was pummelling Lambert’s face. Blood spattered onto the cobblestones as it was forced from Lambert’s mouth, and when the Witcher collapsed to the floor, Geralt wound up for the killing blow.

“Geralt, no!” Jaskier screamed, his voice reverberating around the hall, as he sprinted over. Without hesitation he threw himself over Lambert, curling his body around the wounded Witcher’s head and shoulders as he coughed and wheezed in agony on the floor. The bard held his hand up to stay Geralt, shaking, as he gazed up at the steelly, murderous face that bore down on them.

Geralt hesitated. Those eyes. _Familiar._ They linked to a distant voice that hovered just at the edge of his memory.

> _Tell me. Be honest. How’s my singi - yes, yes yes, you never get involved, except you actually do all the - oh. Oh really? Oh, you usually just let strangers rub - Your very, very best friend in the whole wide -_

Geralt staggered. His head swam as the memories flickered through. A nauseous slideshow of images and words that didn’t make any sense to him. The sword clattered to the ground as his hands lifted to his temples.

> _Whatever it is, you smell of death and destiny. Heroics and heart -_
> 
> **_If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands._ **
> 
> _See you around, Geralt…_

His eyes rolled back as the memory seared through his mind like a brand. By this point, Eskel and Vesemir were sprinting across the hall, but they wouldn’t be there in time to catch him. Jaskier surged up and wrapped his arms around that massive chest, using whatever strength he could muster to prevent him toppling onto the grievously injured Witcher below him. There was no way he was going to stop the fall, but he could be a very good cushion. He went down with Geralt on top of him, the impact heralded only by a quiet squeak of pain as that huge amount of muscle crushed him to the stone. 

Vesemir was there barely a second later to haul Geralt off, one limp arm lifted around his shoulders. Eskel was crouched by Lambert who was now only semi-conscious and unable to speak, “Jaskier, are you alright? Did he - ?” 

Jaskier crawled over on hands and knees to Eskel, one hand placed gently over Lambert’s hand, only for the Witcher to whimper in pain. _Fuck._ The bone was visible through the skin and blood was leaking liberally onto the floor through Lambert’s shirt; if he’d been wearing his gambeson, it might have kept the bone in place and absorbed some of the sword strike. He’d only been practicing footwork in the courtyard. “Eskel, he - he didn’t recognise me. And, he was going to kill Lambert. Something’s wrong.”

“I’ll get some straps from the laboratory,” Vesemir hefted Geralt higher against him. “You two see to Lambert’s injuries. The bone needs setting, and the side will need stitches. Bottle of Swallow and bedrest.” 

Follow orders. It was easy to follow orders. Jaskier fell in beside Lambert as Eskel began to carry him upstairs, trying to offer some comfort, while avoiding the devastation of his sword arm. Witchers healed quickly. It wouldn’t be permanent. _It wouldn’t._

_This was his fault._

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier sings:
> 
> [Lighthouse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-naMkr_7Y0) Collabro 3:44
> 
> The gif was made by the talented heyabooboo. The post (and their tumblr) can be found [here.](https://heyabooboo.tumblr.com/post/620425969762811904/piece-me-back-together-dear-heart-by-rawrkinjd)  
> 


	21. New Bonds (E)

“Merigold.” 

Jaskier startled, blinking at Lambert in the candlelight. The Witcher had been unconscious for two days after passing out from the pain of having his bone set. It had been a valiant effort; he had growled and whined quietly until the moment his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he’d just tipped over into Eskel’s chest. Jaskier had to help Eskel manoeuvre him for each new injury site, and did his best to clean away the blood. _So much blood_. 

Listening to Eskel list off Lambert’s injuries had been truly heartbreaking; fractured eye socket, fractured jaw, a huge laceration at his waist that had _barely_ missed something vital, dislocated shoulder, _shattered_ forearm. This one had troubled Eskel the most and, while Lambert slept, he’d murmured quietly in the twilight, “Witchers heal more quickly, Jaskier, but we aren’t impervious to lasting damage. If that doesn’t heal properly, he’ll never lift a sword again.” _And that would kill him._

Cold compresses brought the swelling on his face down, but the bruising coloured his eyes and jaw in varying shades of black and blue, some even already fading to yellow. It was this bruising that Jaskier was studying when Lambert’s eyes opened and his mouth worked its way painfully around those three syllables. 

Jaskier leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Lambert, I didn’t hear that. Look, don’t speak too much. Do you want some water?”

The Witcher grunted in irritation and lifted his left hand from the bed to beckon Jaskier closer. “Triss Merigold. Call her. On the xenovox,” he grimaced, shifting that same hand over to his shoulder now to probe the damage. Eskel had relocated it but it was sore as all hell. “Merigold. To help Geralt.” His eyes flickered closed as he fell unconscious again, and Jaskier gently lifted his left arm away from his chest and settled it back on the bed. 

When Eskel turned up an hour or so later to check up on them, Jaskier relayed the message and Eskel’s brow creased. “It makes sense,” he stroked a hand over Lambert’s head, fingertips moving in gentle circles. “Thinking of that fucking idiot even when you’re hurting.” He stooped over to press the lightest of kisses on Lambert’s brow; there wasn’t a single part of his face that _wasn’t_ the wrong colour.

“You did tell me when we were walking up here that he was loyal,” Jaskier smiled gently, stroking his palm up Lambert’s forearm. “Geralt is lucky to have family like you.”

“Hmm,” Eskel looked away, and not for the first time Jaskier was worried by the way his eyes shutdown. They hadn’t had any time together to talk about _anything._ Not since reading at Geralt’s bedside, and even then Jaskier had fallen asleep in the armchair, emotionally and physically exhausted. Eskel and Vesemir were now taking it in turns to sit guard duty - their swords across their laps - so Jaskier had stationed himself with Lambert; it was the least he could do really. “I’ll look through Geralt’s things. It’ll be in there somewhere. And Jaskier,” the bard looked up, “I love you. Don’t forget that in the coming months.”

Jaskier ended up climbing into Lambert’s bed and curling up against his side. The Witcher’s left arm tightened around him a few hours later and his face tilted; a deep, subconscious sigh inhaling a lungful of Jaskier's scent.

***

It didn’t take Eskel long to find the xenovox, and Vesemir greeted Triss fondly when she stepped through a portal into the grand hall, “Little daughter.”

She smiled brightly, wrapping an arm around the old Witcher’s shoulders. “Vesemir. I wish we were meeting in happier circumstances.”

“Mmm. Me too. Come on.” He led her upstairs and to Geralt’s room. The Witchers paced outside in the corridor while she worked. Geralt was still unconscious, but she discovered enough through the use of trinkets and incantations, and after three hours of work she stepped out to join Eskel, Vesemir and now Jaskier in the hallway.

“Well, there’s good news and bad news,” she tucked a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, and then clasped both hands in front of her. “The good news is that it’s not permanent. The bad news is that it’s going to take a lot of work, and a lot of pain. On everyone’s part.”

“Tell us what’s going on, Triss.” Eskel murmured. She smiled at him, a little sadly; she liked Eskel. He was polite, kind and mature; a loss to women everywhere, and a breath of fresh air amongst the magical and mysterious. To see him so grey and anxious was not a pleasant experience.

“His memories have been completely wiped by a seriously powerful force. I think they were only going for certain ones, because the,” she paused, looking for the appropriate words to describe what she had seen, “the holes are blacker there. They’ve essentially used a mallet to swat a fly, and Geralt lost everything. He probably has no idea who he is, where he is or who any of you are.”

“Well, he certainly hasn’t forgotten any of his training,” Vesemir spoke quietly, his eyes flickering down the hallway to where one of his other sons slept, bruised and broken. “Not even Signs.”

“It could be that whatever did this to him needed that part of him, but not the rest, so they just got rid of the bits they found inconvenient. It’s difficult to tell.”

Jaskier had been silent up until this point. “So all he knows is that he is a weapon,” his voice cracked, and he rubbed his fingers into his eyes to stem the tears. _Fuck._ Over a year ago, he couldn’t cry even if he tried, now they just _kept coming._ “Why did he faint in the hall? He saw me and just… fell over. Like I’d physically punched him.”

“Hmm,” Triss tapped her chin thoughtfully, mulling over the evidence turned over by her investigation. “I would say that a powerful memory was triggered. Something raw, something that affected him to the very core of his being. Such things are not so easily wiped clean, not even by magic. He must either really love you, or really hate you.” She smiled brightly again, and then looked apologetic when Jaskier’s face _fell. Oh, oops._

Eskel slid a hand carefully around his waist and pulled him into an embrace; Jaskier didn’t even bother to maintain a sense of decorum and just buried his face in Eskel’s chest to wait out the sheer, mind-shattering panic that had just consumed his thoughts.

“So, how do we get the memories back? Just keep putting Jaskier in the room next to him?” Eskel glanced towards the door, ajar enough so that he could see Geralt’s slumbering form, his wrists and legs tied to the bed.

“Not just Jaskier. All of you. He’ll need as many experiences as possible; emotional, raw, difficult. Though with Geralt it’s difficult to tell, isn’t it?” The fact that they _all_ grunted in exasperated agreement made her purse her lips in amusement. 

“There’s one more thing. I need you to take a look at Lambert. Geralt did a number on him, and I need you to check I’ve set his arm properly. If you can hurry the healing along a bit, even better.” Eskel gestured down the hall.

“Are you sure? He isn’t exactly fond of me, is he?” In fact, Lambert treated her with open disdain and only addressed her as ‘Merigold’. He was a _delight._

“Firstly, he’s unconscious, so he can shove it up his ass,” Eskel called over his shoulder as he walked away, guiding Jaskier ahead of him, “secondly, he’s the one that suggested calling you in the first place.” Triss stooped to pick up her bag before following at a trot. Vesemir ducked back into Geralt’s room to take up his post by the window.

By the time Triss had finished, the bruises on Lambert’s face were more faded, his eye socket and jaw were mostly healed, and the laceration in his side was a thin, scabbed line. However, she wasn’t able to do much immediately for his arm. Eskel sent Jaskier back to their room for some rest, with the promise he would be there shortly to hold him.

“It’s - that’s bad. These should help strengthen the bone as it heals. May reduce the healing time by a week or two, but he’s going to need at least a month. It was actually quite a clean break.” 

She bound his arm back inside its splint. Removal had been necessary to examine the break properly, even though she’d been loath to disturb it. There was a small collection of potions on the bedside cabinet, carefully labelled; one in big, bold letters ‘must have with food’.

“It’s going to be quite an impressive scar where the bone came out. Significant damage to the tendons and muscle too, so training will need to start slowly when the bone has healed.”

Eskel sighed, resting his face in his hands. “Oh, that is going to be… challenging.” Trying to keep Lambert off the scaffolds or limited to a training sword was going to be harder than wrestling a wyvern into a jam jar. 

“Oh yes,” she grinned, and folded her used materials back into her bag. “Now, as I understand, Geralt disappeared with Yennefer, correct? If he’s back, then that _must_ mean she is too, and perhaps Ciri is with her. They might be able to shed more light on what happened, so I’ll set to work trying to locate them.” She rose from the edge of the bed and stepped up to Eskel, hopeful. “Can I? Just before I leave.” Huge smile, cheeky and playful.

“You mages are insufferable.” He lifted his hands up for her, with a long suffering sigh, and she slapped them to her cheeks, either side of that bright, beautiful smile, and started giggling. _It tingled._ No one had ever been able to explain this phenomenon with Eskel’s hands, but it was an absolute _must_ whenever he was near to give them a snuggle. She nuzzled into his palms a little bit, and then pressed a little kiss on the back of his knuckles.

“Thank you, I am so jealous of Garstrang, you know, the one you spent four days with in Brugge.”

“H-how do you know about that?”

“Oh, he boasts about it all the time. Everyone at Aretuza knows about it. Half the men there are evaluating their chances of luring you into bed. He says you’re the best lay he’s ever had, and I think he’s knocking on six hundred now, so, well done you.” She winked at him before walking out of the room. 

Eskel just stared after her in mute horror.

***

After Triss’ revelation, Jaskier hadn’t been able to settle anywhere but back with Lambert. _He either loves you or he hates you._ There was no inbetween. He knew it had to be hate. But surely Geralt would have just _killed_ him then? Surely… _fuck._ Most of the time he spent curled up against Lambert’s warm side, and when he wasn’t working or guarding Geralt, Eskel napped in the armchair nearby with his hand resting lightly on one of them, as if worried they would vanish or get hurt while he was asleep. 

Days passed. And Jaskier avoided Geralt’s room, occupying himself solely with caring for Lambert; the man that had almost _died_ because Jaskier needed a piss.

One late afternoon, Lambert inhaled deeply as consciousness returned. He stretched his legs without thinking, but the predicted twinge of pain from his side was minimal compared to what it had been. Left hand lifted to his face and carefully probed. No swelling, still a bit sore. “She touched me, didn’t she?” He didn’t sound best pleased.

Jaskier blinked down. Propped up against some pillows, he sat next to him on the bed, reading. The book now forgotten, he picked Lambert’s hand off his face and rested it gently on his chest. “If you mean Triss Merigold, then yes, but I promise you, she didn’t have a grope. Far more self control than I would’ve had.” 

An irritable growl and the Witcher began to shuffle up. Jaskier fussed, but was grumbled at, and had to settle for arranging the pillows behind Lambert’s back so they could sit shoulder-to-shoulder. “Any particular reason you didn’t want her to help?” 

“Long story,” Lambert mumbled, lifting his right arm slowly to inspect the splint and bandages with careful, probing fingers. “You know, I’m devastated.” A deep sigh and he threw his head back against the wall behind him.

 _It’s your sword arm._ Jaskier knew the answer, but he asked anyway, because Lambert probably needed to get it off his chest. “Why?”

“This is my wanking hand. What the fuck am I meant to do for the next four weeks?” He cast a side-ways glance at Jaskier, clearly pleased by the snort of laughter. “My left hand just isn’t up to the job.” He placed his right arm carefully down at his side, snatching a pillow and stuffing it below his elbow to adjust the angle. “Actually, you know, I can sit on it until it’s numb and then when I jerk off I can pretend it’s someone else. Add an extra level of roleplay.”

“That is simultaneously hilarious and sad, I’m not -,” Jaskier was struggling for words around breathy laughter as his mind provided _all_ the imagery. 

“You spend three weeks hunting arachas in the Mahakham mountains with only dwarves for company, see what you work out,” Lambert shot back. “Desperate times, desperate measures. That’s all I’m saying.”

They sat together in companionable silence as the laughter faded. Jaskier pretended to read, but in reality he was focused wholly on the man sitting next to him. The slow rise and fall of his chest, his thoughtful expression, and the colour pallete of bruising on his handsome face. Bruising that was Jaskier’s doing, or near enough. “Lambert, I’m - I’m sorry, I was meant to be sitting with him when he attacked you, and -.”

“And what?” Lambert looked at him suddenly, the question barked in irritation. “He gets up and runs you through, and then he comes downstairs and does me in for seconds,” he paused, teeth clenched, and then rounded on Jaskier again. “What the fuck were you thinking? He could have killed you.”

“He - I couldn’t let him -.’

“ _Jaskier,_ ” Lambert growled now. Not the usual ‘bard’, ‘rentboy’, ‘flounce’, ‘pansy’ or any of the other ‘pet names’ he used. His eyes blazed with righteous fury. “You are worth a thousand of me, and a thousand more. If he’d killed you, Eskel would have…” He looked away, eyes screwing shut in an effort to moderate his anger. It wasn't anger though, was it, Lambert? It was something else a bit more intimidating, a bit warmer and a bit more _foreign._ Because only another Witcher - strong, capable, hardy - had ever put himself between you and harm, and here was this fragile, human bard who was willing to die to buy you just a few more seconds. _For fuck’s sake._ “Don’t fucking well do it again. And drop the martyrdom, you’re too intelligent for that.”

“Do what again?” Jaskier snapped the book closed and chucked it on the floor; he completely missed the legitimate compliment he’d just been paid in his outrage. _How dare_ Lambert suggest he was worth anything lesser. “Put myself between you and harm? Because I would do it again in a heartbeat. Every time. And don’t you _dare_ talk to me about worth, you -.”

Lambert sighed heavily through his nose and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Fuck.”

“Wha-?” Jaskier didn’t get to finish his question, because the Witcher wrapped his left fist in his doublet and yanked him across his chest for a kiss. Lips soft and warm, tongue sweeping into Jaskier’s mouth and leaving behind the sweet taste of the honey that Triss used to make her pain-killing potions more palatable. Briefly stunned, Jaskier could only squeak at first, before a contented sigh from the man below him stirred him into action. He slipped a hand behind Lambert’s head, scratching his nails gently through his hair and down his neck as he saw Eskel do.

Speaking of. “Huh, stealing my man with your battle scars, are you, Lambert?” Eskel closed the door softly behind him and Lambert drew away quickly, looking somewhat embarrassed. _It was a good look_ . “Oh, I didn’t say stop.” Eskel flopped down into the armchair at the side of the bed, one leg chucked over an arm while he leaned back against the other. Golden eyes were ashine, and slightly parted lips spoke of an interest well beyond innocent. Vesemir had just relieved him from guard duty; he was tired, tense and watching two people he loved get off on each other would be the literal _perfect_ end to his day.

“We’re done.” Lambert grated out, definitely _not_ making eye contact.

“We’re not done,” Jaskier purred and shifted up onto his knees, he nudged Lambert’s right bicep to get him to move his arm out of harm’s way, and when he did out of surprise more than obedience, Jaskier straddled his lap and cupped his face for another of those beautifully tender kisses. Slender fingers slid over the stubble on his jaw, gripping behind his neck and pushing his head back. Lambert’s eyes closed and his working hand rested on Jaskier’s hip, fingers kneading only subtly.

Every movement was slow and measured; Jaskier was aware of every injury because he’d run his fingers over each one. As the kiss deepened and he felt Lambert’s chest push against his insistently, he rocked his hips down against his lap until a satisfying hardness began to push up between his legs. Outside his leather trousers, there was nothing but soft cotton braies to contain Lambert’s cock and Jaskier ground down so that he could feel its heat even through his breeches. He pulled his mouth away, leaving only enough room to inspect the glazed look in Lambert’s eyes and his swollen lips, kissed pink and full. “Mmm, is that all for me?”

“You bastard, I literally just told you I -,” Lambert glanced across to Eskel, a flick of the eyes because Jaskier still held his face exactly where he wanted it. Eskel was watching intently, with a huge bulge forming in the front of his trousers. “You two have discussed this, haven’t you?”

“Well, we didn’t plan it meticulously, if that’s what you’re trying to say,” Jaskier murmured against his lips, before sweeping his tongue between them, departing only to nibble a trail through that delightful stubble and down his neck. “Let me help? I want Eskel to watch.” And there were those lovely big pupils again; it was the _watching._ Had to be. Because Lambert immediately looked at Eskel again, who started to pointedly unlace his own trousers in lazy tugs.

“You know what, fuck it, it’s been a shit few days,” Lambert croaked, gesturing down to his lap. “Have at it, squire.” 

Jaskier smirked at the light sprinkling of bravado. They would have to do this again with his collar on, when he was floating in subspace, and Jaskier would listen to him fall to pieces. A bit of panting would have to do for now. Jaskier shuffled backwards, placing gentle kisses at the hollow of Lambert’s throat, in the centre of his chest and just above his navel, marking his trajectory all the way down to his hips. 

The thick cock straining inside its cotton prison pressed against his chin, and he cast Lambert his most mischievous smile before tonguing around the head through the material. The Witcher squirmed, his left fist clenched next to his thigh. Jaskier slid his eyes across to Eskel, who had pulled that monstrous length from his trousers and was palming it lazily as he watched. _A wiggle of the eyebrows as well, lecherous bloody--_ Jaskier grinned and tugged Lambert’s waistband down until his cock, naked and hot, brushed past his lips. 

He slipped his fingers around the base, lavishing his tongue up the side and over the head to take his first taste, “Touching you I catch midnight as moon fires set in my throat; I love your flesh into blossom.”

“Wh-what?” Lambert’s brow furrowed as he looked down first at Jaskier, and then across to Eskel who threw his head back with a breathy laugh.

“Just… let him go, Lambert. It makes it better.” Eskel rested his head against the winged edge of the headrest and ran his eyes down the muscular slope of Lambert’s torso to where Jaskier’s sweet, pink lips now engulfed his head. Elegant throat straining to take Lambert in as far as possible, and _fuck_ Eskel really wasn’t going to last long with a sight like that. Jaskier moaned, bobbing his head up and down with hollow cheeks and a flat tongue. Lambert’s fingers buried themselves at the base of his head, fisting a handful of silken brunette hair and doing his level best to be a polite recipient and not shove up into the wet heat working him. 

When Jaskier drew his mouth away, he made sure Lambert could see the head of his cock, slick and glistening, against the flat of his tongue and made eye contact, because he _lived_ for that helpless pleasure bleeding through amber hues. Open mouth smoothed down Lambert’s shaft to his balls, sucking loudly and wetly until Jaskier earned his first whimper. Only when Lambert was panting, unsure whether he wanted to look at Eskel, huge cock twitching and flush, or the mess of Jaskier’s face smeared with saliva and precum, did the bard suck with an earnest pace. He nearly choked in his effort to swallow the spend that splashed across the back of his tongue, fingers tightening around the base to pump his lover through his orgasm as he _loudly_ slurped him down.

Lambert wasn’t allowing any of this tom-foolery and hauled Jaskier up with an eye-watering grip on his hair to smash their mouths together. Graceless and wary of the healing wounds on the Witcher’s chest, Jaskier floundered, mumbling something of an apology and then forgetting it completely when Lambert’s tongue pushed into his mouth. The kiss was as messy and wet as the blowjob and the Witcher smeared his mouth and chin through the saliva and come leaking over Jaskier’s lips. Blue eyes fluttered across to Eskel as he snarled in the chair, the wanton sight bringing him off to his own pleasing conclusion. 

Jaskier sat back on Lambert’s knees, using the cuff of his doublet to clean up his face, and Lambert watched him with a rather feral glint in his eyes. “Inclined to go again at a later date?”

The Witcher shrugged. “Hmm, yeah, it was alright.”

He yelped when Jaskier twisted a nipple in retribution, and Eskel laughed, breathless and sated.

***

> _This marks the first day of the rest of your miserable - I am the tyrant of your - nightmares - pay for that._
> 
> _Extra trials - the best among us - stronger, more powerful - don’t know the side effects - it’s your choice, Geralt._

Geralt’s eyes snapped open and he stared at the vaulted ceiling above. A flutter of movement at the edge of his vision drew his attention immediately, and he turned his head sharply to bring the hunched figure by the window into view. He tried to lift his hands, but only managed an inch off the bed; a further thrash and kick yielded little more.

“Don’t bother, Geralt. Those bindings kept you still during the mutations. You won’t break them,” Vesemir leaned into the slant of moonlight breaking through the curtains. "We have a lot to talk about, my boy.”

“Vesemir.” Even to his own ears, Geralt's voice sounded uncertain, a deep crackle of noise through the penetrating quiet.

“The one and only.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel's hands "emanate powerfully" with magic. According to canon lore, this triggers "pleasant, piercing vibrations" for mages. It was too good not to include.


	22. Facing Demons

Jaskier was nervous. Geralt was now _conscious_ and, according to Vesemir, his memories were beginning to filter in. He knew his name, where he was, who Vesemir was, _what_ he was and he _knew_ Jaskier by name. Had requested him, in fact. _Fuck fuck fuck._ The bard wiped sweaty palms down his doublet - no idea why, it’s not like he was shaking Geralt’s hand in greeting - but it just felt like he should be immaculate, or _something._

“I’ll be right here, Jaskier,” Eskel pressed a kiss to his forehead; the swords jutting over his right shoulder were a poignant reminder that Eskel still considered Geralt a threat. “Just walk out whenever you want.”

Jaskier stepped silently through the door and closed it softly behind him. Geralt looked up and followed him across the room with his eyes, inquisitive and bright. His wrists and legs were still bound, but Vesemir had given him enough slack to sit up in bed. Tousled white hair fell over the open neck of his black shirt, apart from the beard, he looked _exactly_ like he had when Jaskier left him on the mountain. “Geralt.” His voice sounded impossibly small in the cavernous room, and he sat down carefully in the armchair.

“Jaskier.” 

_Oh shit._ It was the same tone of voice he’d used after realising Jaskier had survived the djinn’s curse. _Jaskier, you’re okay._ Bright, pleased. He was a familiar face, a face with memories attached. _Happy._ Pleasant memories? Jaskier said nothing, but looked down at his hands in his lap, biting on his lower lip and willing it not to quiver.

“You’re frightened of me.” Geralt murmured, and when Jaskier looked up sharply, he could see the sadness in the furrows of Geralt’s brow and his downcast eyes. “I didn’t kn -.”

“I know, Geralt. You - you weren’t sure where you were, you were confused,” Jaskier spoke quickly. “That’s - that’s not why I’m frightened of you.” He lifted his eyes slowly from the floor and _made_ himself level them on Geralt’s through sheer force of will. “I’m frightened that I might forgive you for what you did to me, and I’m - I’m not sure I can put myself at risk again. I’ve lost you twice already and - and I definitely won’t survive a third time.”

Geralt’s lips parted to speak, and then his mouth clicked closed as he fumbled around in the limited memories he had. He clung to them feverishly, going over and over, seeking each new nugget of information until he was certain his mind started to fill in empty gaps with made up stories, but these memories pieced together perfectly with what Jaskier had said to one result.

“We were lovers then.” 

The way he said it. _The way he said it._ So lightly, so _definite._ As if it were the only logical conclusion to draw from all the memories he had. It sounded like he’d put a missing puzzle piece in place and Jaskier’s mouth fell open in shock. Perhaps all he had was snippets of different memories rather than the whole thing; like ink blotches splashed onto a page.

Jaskier laughed. It was a hysterical, watery laugh that pushed tears from his eyes beyond his control. Geralt looked immediately concerned, and it just made it worse because his face was so _open._ “N - no, I’m sorry,” he scrubbed his face to get rid of the tears. “We weren’t lovers. You couldn’t stand me. You said-”

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,” Geralt said the words so quietly, like his throat was struggling to let them loose from his chest. “Why did I say that, Jaskier? I can’t remember. I-,” he grit his teeth, his jaw twitching in the way it always had in irritation when Jaskier said or did something he hated, but this time it was at his own failures, “tell me. Tell me so I can apologise properly.”

“You - you really don’t remember, do you? You don’t…” Jaskier trailed off and then dropped his face into his hands. _He didn’t know why he sent Jaskier away._ A sudden surge of anger sparked in Jaskier’s chest and he clenched his teeth. Yet another answer snatched from him by fate. He was suddenly on his feet, fists clenched, but not lunging because striking a bound man was dishonourable. “How am I meant to know Geralt? I fucking… I fucking _loved_ you, and you sent me away. Everything I did, everything I was, you _hated_ it. You called me names, pushed me away, _hit_ me once. And you _sit_ there and ask whether we were lovers. You sit there and -,” he ran his hands through his hair and seethed through his teeth, willing himself to calm. 

“I’m sorry.” Geralt’s voice was so quiet, Jaskier almost missed it, and he spun around to face the bed. The Witcher’s eyes were downcast at first, but when he realised the bard was looking again, he lifted them up and met his gaze. “For what I did to you. It's unforgivable, but I’m still sorry.”

Jaskier stood there dumbly. How had he expected this to go? Furious argument? Furious declaration of love? Something furious. This felt so very meak. It paled in comparison to the years of drowning in alcohol, the heartbreak, the resounding emptiness. “I’m sorry too,” he croaked finally. “I had a lot of growing up to do, Geralt. I wasn’t easy to be around. I -,” he cast his eyes to the floor, took a deep breath to steady himself, and then returned to that intense gaze, “I made poor choices, and you saved me so many times, looked after me in your own way. I would have followed you to the ends of the world. I only ever wanted to lo-.” It stuck there in his throat and it couldn’t wriggle itself free, because he knew if he said it again, then he would use it as a whip with which to beat himself later.

His younger self might have come in here, strutted about and informed Geralt about how _foolish_ he had been to _ditch_ the Continent’s finest bard. Perhaps he might even have lashed out, but the emotional toll of not just the last few days, but the last few years - loss, war, alcohol - had just left him fragile and empty. An emptiness that seemed to yawn bigger every time he felt like he was filling it up. As if there was always a part missing, and it would be forever out of his reach. He’d ridden through battlefields, unarmed, spied in enemy courts, hidden in Emhyr van Emreis’ personal fucking closet to collect intel; he was brave, he _could_ be brave, but in front of Geralt, he was _just a mess._

“Jaskier.” Low, melancholy rumble. _Don’t go._

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._ “I’m going to - I’m going to go,” he backed out of the room and Geralt watched him go with _sad_ golden eyes, and it was just too much. As soon as he stepped into Eskel’s arms he burst into deep, hysterical sobs that shook his entire body. Eskel scooped him up as if he weighed nothing, carried him back to his room - _their_ room - and curled around him next to the fire until his misery subsided. When it was time to leave for some chores, Eskel deposited Jaskier’s sleeping form on Lambert’s bed, and his brother dutifully gathered him close without a word.

***

It was Eskel’s turn. The memories were buried deep, less fresh, and Geralt watched him curiously; Vesemir hadn’t introduced him. It was necessary for Geralt to find as much as he could on his own. He knew he was in Kaer Morhen, that he was safe, and that was all that Vesemir had really _told_ him. In Eskel’s lap was a book, but over the top was a sword, and it was on this that Eskel’s hands rested.

Geralt watched him carefully, but this one schooled his face much better than Jaskier. His expression was stern, his eyes were unreadable. The familiarity was burning at the back of his mind. Like an instinctive feeling of attachment, but there were no accompanying images, phrases, snippets; Geralt had nothing for this one. Not yet. “How do we know each other?”

Eskel looked up slowly, fixing Geralt with a heavy stare. _They even looked similar._ “We trained together here,” he spoke quietly, his voice as deep as Geralt’s, but less worn. “Went through all the Trials, which we’ll show you later, and then we met here every winter when we weren’t walking the Path.”

“Hmm,” Geralt looked back to the Witcher’s lap. “A sword and a book.” A statement, but also a request for further explanation.

“I want to try something that we used to do when we were trainees here. With the book,” he tapped the cover. It was a completely innocuous volume on insectoids, but it would serve its purpose, “the sword is for if you decide to have a pop at me too.” 

“Hmm.”

 _Yes, Geralt. Hmm._ Eskel heaved a sigh and moved the sword to the wall, he placed the book on the bedside table and sat on the edge of the bed. “This is so fucking stupid…”

“What is?”

“We haven’t done this for nearly ninety years. We stopped because,” he bit down on his words, steadied his voice, “because we grew up.” _Because I was still in love, and you weren’t._

“Did we do it a lot?”

“Yes. Almost every night.”

“Can we try it, please?”

Eskel looked at Geralt suddenly, so very close. His lips were set in a firm line, but his eyes were intensely bright. He desperately wanted to remember. It must be terrifying to look into your own mind and find _nothing_ of yourself. So Eskel unbuckled the first wrist strap carefully. 

“If you try to attack me, I -,” he paused - _kill you, not in a million years -_ he just leaned across Geralt’s chest and undid the second. And why in Melitele’s name he did that, he had no idea, because the hit of Geralt’s scent he got this close made him dizzy. “I need to be behind you. The book will be open over your chest. Is that alright?”

“Yes,” Geralt was rubbing his wrists, and noted that Eskel didn’t undo the straps on his legs. _Not fully trusted just yet._ That was fine. He needed to earn it. They were helping him put the pieces together the best way they knew how. “Shall I move forward?”

“Please.” Eskel picked up the book and stood dumbly at the bedside, realised his boots were still on, and kicked them off onto the floor. No gambeson or armour; he was just in his shirt sleeves and trousers. As Geralt shuffled forward, Eskel clambered in behind him, sitting behind his rear and spreading his legs out either side of his hips. Every muscle in his body felt like it was on a spring, and he barely rasped out the next words. “You need to lean back.”

Geralt hesitated briefly, glancing over his shoulder, a wisp of white hair falling over his eye. Slowly he leaned back against Eskel’s chest, shuffled a little to get his lower back comfortable and then held his hands up for the book. Insead, Eskel’s arms crowded around his shoulders and he opened the book just at the top of Geralt’s stomach. Eskel spoke quietly, his voice low next to Geralt’s ear, “You usually turn the pages.”

“Alright,” Geralt carefully rested his elbows on Eskel’s thighs, not too heavily; it felt a bit awkward. _At first._ He closed his eyes and tried to place himself _back._ The scent was so familiar, perhaps if he latched onto that...

> _A lot of being a Witcher is about knowledge, Eskel - turn the page, you’re so fuckin’ slow - I like looking at the pictures - Geralt, can we read something else? - Don’t take the piss, alright?_

An hour past and Eskel was still on the first fucking sentence. ’Insectoid is a hypernym used to-’ His heart was hammering in his chest, and he was certain that Geralt could hear it behind his head. He couldn’t focus on anything else; there was just Geralt, his warmth, his scent, even Eskel’s eyes were failing him, because the words were unhelpfully _blurry_. So focused on bringing himself under control, he missed Geralt’s hand lifting from the bed to brush lightly across his bare forearm. 

“Eskel.” 

His name rumbled out almost sleepily, followed by a deflating sigh as all the tension left Geralt’s body; his head rested back properly against Eskel’s chest. 

“Yes.” Eskel’s voice barely registered on the spectrum of sound, and his fingers gripped the edges of the book until they turned white. “Turn the page?”

“Mmm.” Geralt reached forward and turned, head tilting as he considered one of the images. “I _do_ like the pictures.”

Vesemir arrived several hours later to relieve Eskel and found them in exactly the same position as he had so many times when they were boys. Eskel was slumped back against a nest of pillows where he had sunk down over time, head lolled to the side, Geralt sprawled over his chest and mouth slightly open, the book face down on his abdomen. Both were sound asleep, comforted by the proximity and familiarity of the other.

Varin had told him to snap them out of it. Everyone could see it wasn’t just an adolescent fumble that could be ignored as they would ‘grow out of it’. No. Geralt and Eskel were _something else_. _There’s no room for that on the Path. Don’t let them have another reason to be pelted with stones_ , Varin had said _._ It was true. Their love would not be looked kindly upon, but in Vesemir’s eyes they were in the unique position to explore it freely. If the world was already going to hate them for what they _were_ , then why not make the most of it? Why not have each other? Rennes and Barmin, after quiet consideration, took his side.

So, each night he found Geralt’s bunk empty, he would move to Eskel’s and carefully remove the book from wherever it had fallen and place it neatly on the floor, pull the blankets around them and leave them to each other. The world was a cruel place for a Witcher. They deserved to have just _one thing_ that was pure.

With silent footsteps, he crossed the room and carefully picked the book from Geralt’s chest to check the cover. _‘The Wonderful World of Insectoids’ by Master Dorregray_ , no wonder they were asleep. 

He glanced down, and met Geralt’s eyes, lidded and full of sleep, they watched him carefully. _Not quite the untrained, oblivious youngster anymore._ The old Witcher nodded in acknowledgement, turned and left. Geralt shifted against Eskel’s warm chest and considered the limp hand sprawled out next to him. His fingers reached out tentatively to touch the back, but drew away and curled into his fist.

_Why did he feel like he didn’t have the right?_

***

“Shouldn’t we go down there?”

Jaskier stood next to Vesemir in the huge library window. The balcony doors were closed, but he could almost feel the heat of Eskel’s Igni as it consumed the courtyard and melted through the snow and the ice.

“No. Give him some time. Ever get that feeling when you just need to stand on the top of a mountain and scream obscenities at the cosmos? This is the Witcher equivalent. Just because you _can_ control your emotions, it doesn't mean you always _should_. I wouldn’t allow him to go and hunt harpies. Too risky with all the snow. So the courtyard had to do.”

“Is he half dragon? Because that is _a lot_ of fire.” Another huge volume of flame ballooned into the air; a raging inferno of a mushroom cloud. The bard raised his goblet to his lips as he watched Eskel roar into the sky, a telekinetic blast rippling across the courtyard and shattering through a huge pile of stone debris. _Aard._

“Well, the instructors did give him a nickname. Dragon of Kaer Morhen. Problem is, when he got older and the other trainees saw how well endowed he was, it took on a different meaning completely.”

Jaskier spat his wine _everywhere._

***

Geralt stood at the top of the stairs winding down into the laboratory and felt bile rise in the back of his throat. _He didn’t want to go down there._ Vesemir and Eskel stood at his shoulder; Jaskier had wanted to come, but in the end Eskel convinced him to stay with Lambert. This was not really a place for people outside the school; it was a dire, burnt out husk. The low, vaulted ceilings, round pillars and bountiful supply of chains, leather straps and harnesses made it feel like a descent into the bowels of hell.

They got halfway down the stairs and Geralt stopped abruptly. He took Eskel by the shirt and shoved him against the wall. His fingers pressed into Eskel's chest and his lips twisted into a snarl. Distress. His mouth worked as if looking for a word, and his eyes screwed shut as his mind came up blank. _There was something..._

”We both lived, Geralt. Both of us. Come on.” Eskel touched his face, clean shaven now he could be trusted within two metres of a blade, and then led the way into the dank gloom of the laboratory. 

After the purges, they cleaned it up as best they could. The fanatics saw some kind of poetic justice in burning the mages down here; they set up pyres and suffocated themselves in the thick black smoke that poured off them. _Fucking idiots._ It had been an absolute shitshow, and the three weeks it took to clean it up were branded in Eskel’s memory as vividly as if it had happened yesterday. 

Eskel wasn’t sure what to expect. Would Geralt scream? Rage? Would he stare mutely into space? Would it have any impact at all? His own mind had repressed it to the point he only ever really reflected on it in his nightmares. A reoccuring trauma that he knew was there, but managed in a way that it did not impact on his daily existence. Or so he assumed. How far were Witchers really mentally sound? A matter for men far more educated than he. 

Vesemir took up a post at the bottom of the stairs, lifting his arm only briefly to point over to a far corner. “The additional mutations happened in that area over there, Geralt. Perhaps it might be worth having a look.” 

None of it looked familiar and Geralt growled in irritation, stepping around the debris of harnesses, wooden benches and scrap metal scattered around the floor. He reached the corner Vesemir had indicated and looked around at his feet, using the toe of his boot to nudge away shattered alchemy flasks and splintered wood. _Nothing._

 _Then_ , he saw something familiar. It was a small square of paper no bigger than a Gwent card. Mostly obscured by debris, he crouched down and swept dust and glass aside until he could pluck it from the floor. On one side was a small inscription; _we are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep._ He flicked it over and his heart leapt into his throat. The card displayed the image of a man from the back; in his right hand a sword, his hair a snowy white. He faced into a raging storm, furls of dark clouds and lightning struck the earth before him…

> _He’ll be so other after this no one will want to go near him - like the School of Cat, how they used to be when they were at Stygga - emotionless - might have to put him down if it goes wrong - can’t believe he’s still alive._

The card hadn’t been on the floor back then. It had been on the desk currently laying in splinters in the corner. One of the mages tucked it in the cover of their journal; they always left it propped up on a stand and when he was conscious, he’d strain his neck around in the harness to look at it. A single man with white hair facing the unstoppable force of a tempest.

> _Too dangerous - less than human - might not be safe enough for the Path - keep him separate from the other trainees for the first few weeks - ahh, fuck, he’s haemorhagging again, get the cl--_

Geralt dropped to his knee and pressed the heel of his hand into his temple, his fingers crushing the card between them. The memories of the pain; the smell of vomit and shit; his body reshaped _again_. He could feel the bite of the leather straps as if they were still on his skin now; the burning ichor in his veins; the taste of the decoction as they choked his throat, and the darkness clouding his vision, threatening to consume him for good. 

He fought it. Like the man in the picture fought the tempest. _Because he would prove them wrong._

Eskel was at his side in an instant, and Geralt clenched a fist in his shirt as the shaking became more furious. Uncontrollable. “Eskel, they took it all,” he wheezed as saliva frothed at his mouth, “they took everything.” 

Vesemir appeared at his other side and took his arm to wrench him from the floor. “No, boy. They _tried_ , but they failed,” he snagged Eskel too and hauled him to his feet. “That’s enough ghosts for today.”

Geralt slept for two days.


	23. Weathering the Storm

Eskel told Jaskier about the laboratory, and then placed a hand on his shoulder when he immediately surged to his feet to go to Geralt, because even _now_ , even without the closure of explanation, and the absolute _mess_ of their first conversation, Jaskier couldn’t tolerate the idea of Geralt in pain. Eskel spoke softly, and pulled him back into an embrace. “He’s sleeping. Let him rest.” 

Two days. _Two days._ Jaskier found himself finding reasons to walk past Geralt’s room. _Get this for Lambert. Check on Vesemir. I should take this overwhelmingly long detour to attend to this chore. Is that Eskel I just glimpsed at the end of the corridor while standing in the doorway for no reason? Oh, I must have left my lute over--_ then he just stopped kidding himself and spent time standing outside, watching Geralt through the crack in the door. It didn’t help that Lambert was now mobile and getting testy about the ‘supervision’ as he called it, so Jaskier had to let him have some privacy to do Lambert things, whatever they were, when he was awake. 

_Eskel, they took it all._

He hadn’t even heard Geralt say it, and yet the words were haunting him. _What did they take from you?_ Could it be replaced? Can I help you get it back? 

They were two long and difficult days.

But when Jaskier walked past Geralt’s room and saw him _kneeling_ in the centre, it wasn’t relief he felt, but a kind of consuming anxiety. He leaned back against the wall outside the door and drew a deep, shuddering breath. Geralt would know he was there now. His heartbeat alone was loud enough for Vesemir to hear at the other end of the castle, no doubt. If he walked away, he was a coward. Geralt was drowning in painful memories that he couldn’t navigate, unable to make sense of some of them because they were incomplete and finding others too raw to deal with. Jaskier would be _damned_ if he left Geralt to suffer like that; he was many things, but he was _not a coward._

The door was open enough for him to squeeze through without making too much noise, and he approached tentatively. Geralt had taken down the maps and posters from his wall and they lay on the floor. It wasn’t the furious, shredding chaos of a man that had rampaged through his belongings in mindless rage; they were all carefully arranged around the largest map in the centre. Drawings from children were placed reverently across the edges, some at angles where they overlapped so that he could still see them, and smaller, more intricate maps of specific locations were - Jaskier tiptoed a little closer - yes, were placed next to the correct town or landmark. 

Some items from the shelf had been removed too. They were scattered at his knees for the most part, but one or two had made it onto the map. He was piecing together these physical representations of his memories like a giant jigsaw puzzle; Jaskier could imagine him rolling them over in his hands, examining, _remembering…_ and then placing. His memories were coming back with stimuli, clearly enriched with every new artefact or image he investigated.

He was perfectly still now, and staring down at a small frame by his knees. It wasn’t Ciri; that one was already placed in the very centre of the map, upright, with Ciri’s beaming smile facing Geralt. No. The portrait that currently held his attention had long, raven hair and violet eyes. _Ahh_. It hadn’t taken long for Geralt to remember Yennefer, and in a panic he’d asked for his swords and Roach - _oh, fuck, that one had been hard -_ but between the two of them Eskel and Jaskier convinced him to trust in Triss.

Jaskier lowered himself slowly to the floor at Geralt’s side, but before he could speak, Geralt’s deep, gravelly rumble filled the room.

“Is there a difference between the love and possession of a person?”

So we’re starting with the _easy_ question then, Geralt. _Bloody hell._ Jaskier cleared his throat, head tilted to the side. “There is a crossover certainly,” he paused. “But _possessing_ something is not truly _loving_ it. In order to _have_ something, it's _yours_ , you mould it and change it into what you want it to be, and you grow jealous or angry when it's not with you.” Geralt was staring down at the portrait still, his expression somewhat… unhappy, so Jaskier continued. “If you love something, then you must be prepared to accept it just as it is, all of its foibles in addition to all of its beauties. And if that _something_ is a person, then you must allow them the freedom to be what they are.”

“Hmm.” Geralt remarked, _helpfully._ Jaskier was sure it was going to end there and was just building up to a long suffering sigh when Geralt spoke again. “Whenever I spent a prolonged amount of time with her, it became overpowering, consuming. I got the impression that she,” he paused, looked away to the side with a clenched, twitching jaw, before looking back, “that she wanted to possess all of me, but didn’t want to give any of herself.”

Jaskier bit back his flinch. Ahh, yes, he was very familiar with the many, _many_ times Geralt had flaked out on Yennefer, because he, dear reader, often trailed after the pieces. In fact, it was one such attempt to reconcile after a fiery split that had led to… _the mountain._

He had to be careful here. _Very_ careful. There was no point lying though - Geralt could _smell_ a lie, he was certain - so Jaskier went with plain, brutal honesty. “Possessing another person is a toxic kind of love, Geralt. It’s corrosive and destructive. It will consume both parties and leave them feeling bereft. It focuses on _taking_ and _having_ , not giving. For some people it is the only way they know _how_ to love,” Jaskier looked down to the portrait, and felt certain she was about to hex him from the damn picture, “love has to go both ways. It needs to be freely and passionately given, then gratefully and warmly received.”

“What I feel _from_ you and Eskel is different to what I remember from Yen, and what I have in return is -,” he reached out to pick up the portrait and bring it close to his face. “I care for her, but it's not the same way I care for you two. The difference is just becoming stronger the more I remember. It’s not… full yet.”

Jaskier pressed his lips together so hard he was certain they would meld closed forever. The first noise he made was a squeak as he realised he was running out of oxygen, and Geralt looked at him in concern. The bard lifted his hand up to indicate he was completely _fine_ , and then when he discovered the use of his lungs again, he spoke. “Not full because you can’t remember?”

“Because it feels dangerous,” he tilted the portrait onto its back and leaned across the map on his hands to place it over Vengerberg, when he returned to his knees next to Jaskier, he was looking down at his hands. “It feels like if I were to love something, it would be destroyed. As if torn apart by a storm. One that I create, and cannot control.”

“Geralt-.” Jaskier knew his voice sounded like a breathless whine, but his mind wasn’t even able to conjure _words_ , let alone worry about _tone and execution._

“Is that why I turned you away on the mountain, Jaskier?” Geralt looked across to the bard now. “I chose possession over love because the only person it would hurt is me, and no one else.”

A tear escaped down the side of Jaskier’s cheek and he looked away towards the door as he bit back the others that threatened to break free. This felt more like an apology than their first conversation, and it was so savagely raw that Jaskier could barely breathe. In his search for his memories and his identity, Geralt was having to confront all those aspects of himself that he'd shelved and suppressed - for his own sanity, perhaps. This is what Jaskier had craved for _years_ , and yet now it was here, he wasn't sure he was strong enough to shoulder the weight of it.

Geralt spoke still, softly. “I thought your pain would be fleeting; you would forget me and it would be better that way,” his eyes lifted to look at the back of the bard's head, watching his shoulders shudder. “I made a poor choice, Jaskier. Please forgive me.”

Jaskier turned back, unable to stop the tears as they rolled down his cheeks, and looked down at the hands clenched in his lap. One lifted slowly, fingers uncurling stiffly from where they were biting so fiercely into his own palm, and he moved it across to slide down Geralt’s wrist and take his hand. “I do,” he croaked, eyes rising shakily to meet the intense stare currently levied in his direction. “I forgive you.”

The Witcher leaned to the side and rested his forehead against Jaskier’s shoulder, his eyes closed as he heaved a sigh. It was so deep, so level, that even Jaskier felt a calm descend over him. His fingers wrapped around Geralt’s palm, white hair spilling across his sapphire blue doublet, relishing the warmth of his proximity. _Suddenly he felt whole._ It was almost a disappointment when Geralt sat up again, but Jaskier released his hand and indicated the map, sniffling back his tears. “This looks very promising.”

“Mm,” Geralt nodded, the ghost of a smile tilting his lips upwards. “I just pick something and pour over the map, or look at a picture. Sometimes there’s nothing, just empty space, but other times I get phrases, or images.”

“Alright, well… a lot of these places I was actually with you, or at least nearby, perhaps if I tell you some of our stories, it might help?”

Geralt looked across to him and Jaskier felt his heart quiver in delight when that smile quirked a little bigger. “I would like that.”

***

“Again.”

“Lambert, that’s enough for today. You’re doing yourself more damage. We can try again in a few more days.” Eskel spun his blade up and into the scabbard on his back, his hands lifting to beckon Lambert towards him.

“No. I’m not going in until I can do _one fucking set._ ”

The sun was setting and the temperature had plummeted already. Jaskier stood at the edge of the courtyard, sent by Vesemir to call them in for dinner, and he pulled his cloak tightly around his shoulders. The snows were beginning to thaw as winter came to an end, but it was still _bloody cold._

The splint and bandages were removed four days ago, and the first thing Lambert did after pressing each fingertip into Eskel’s palm to check the response of muscles and tendons, was to seize his sword. He had promptly dropped it onto the floor when his grip failed. Jaskier had never seen the man look so crestfallen, _so devastated_ ; Lambert had stared at his own hand in horror and disgust, and not even Eskel was able to find him when he vanished into the castle.

The first session Lambert refused lighter training equipment and with a simple flick of his wrist Eskel knocked the steel sword from his hand repeatedly, until Lambert’s entire arm was shaking with the pain of picking it from the floor again. There was some improvement this time, but he was still only able to meet a handful of parries before his grip failed and the sword clattered across the ice-covered cobblestones.

Jaskier felt Vesemir appear at his shoulder. He had that _way_ about him. Not particularly broad or physically imposing, but a presence that filled the room without a single word. He stepped up onto the wall of the balcony and gazed down. “Lambert,” his voice barked across the courtyard like the crack of a whip, trained in bellowing across the heads of trainees and earning immediate obedience. For this reason, said Witcher looked up from where he glowered at Eskel. Vesemir continued, “You keep training like this, son, then you’re finished. Done forever. In this castle, with me, until you fade away. You will get your arm back, but it will take patience and discipline. And _trust_ , in yourself and us.” His words hung there for a moment, as if echoing through the mountains. “Inside. Now.” 

There were no arguments. Not with Vesemir. He didn’t look happy about it, but Lambert sheathed his sword and ascended the stone steps into the entrance hall. Eskel followed him shortly after, gathering Jaskier briefly in a one-armed embrace. Unfortunately, they weren’t in time to prevent Lambert from running into Geralt without support - for who, it was unclear.

Dinner had been somewhat tense since Geralt had started eating with them. Lambert didn’t look up from his food, speak to any of them, or want to play cards after. He went back to his room and he closed the door. It just got worse after he dropped his sword, but now it boiled over. Geralt had seen Lambert playing cards and his memories had begun to filter back through; who he was, why he was important. _Horrified_ was too light a word to describe Geralt's perception of his own behaviour, but Lambert was avoiding him. Until now.

“This is your fault. You did this to me!” Lambert roared as he thundered through the grand hall towards Geralt, his left fist clenching and swinging up to smash him in the jaw. Geralt didn’t even attempt to defend himself and took the blow without retaliation. The subsequent knee between the legs caused him to hunch over in discomfort, and he threw out a hand to catch Lambert’s left arm in an iron grip when he went for another attack. Standing straight with effort, Geralt pulled back swiftly and hugged Lambert close, wrapping two arms around him until their bodies were pressed together hard enough to push the breath from their lungs.

“I’m sorry,” Geralt said softly, the guilt bleeding through his eyes as Lambert’s scarred right arm rested on his shoulder, delivering only one blow to Geralt’s chest before it came to a shuddering stop. “I’m sorry.” He kept saying it until Lambert stilled against him, huffing in huge lungfuls of air when Geralt’s grip loosened.

“You always do this,” Lambert murmured, lifting his head from Geralt’s chest and shoving him away. “You do _shitty_ things. You - you’re a _prick_. Then you come back, and you say sorry, and everyone just _forgives_ you for it.” He was looking everywhere but at Geralt, and Jaskier began to tentatively approach, but Eskel tugged him back gently. Comfort later, leave him to say what he needs to. “I will too, probably. Like a chump. But I’m fucking pissed at you, and I don’t want to be near you right now. So… just fuck off.” He shouldered his way past and headed for the stairs, Geralt looked after him and swallowed.

“Geralt, here.” Vesemir called, and was obeyed. The old Witcher piled up a fifth plate while they were eating and disappeared up the winding staircase with it in his hand. 

“He just needs a bit of time to be angry,” Eskel nudged some carrots around his plate. “It won’t last forever.” 

“What if it’s permanent?” Geralt’s voice was low, and he considered the goblet of wine in front of him thoughtfully. He was carefully containing his expression, but Jaskier could see the sag of his shoulders under the weight of the guilt. _He meant the arm, not the anger._

“It’s not, Geralt. He’s just pushing himself too soon. You know Lambert,” he grinned. “Fire. Passion. Immediacy. Patience and discipline are not really his areas of expertise.” Despite himself, Geralt smiled back and picked up his fork. Eskel continued, “Vesemir and I will train with him until it strengthens up. You should too. Imagine you’re a bit rusty after all that sleeping you’ve been doing”

“I’d kick your ass any day of the week,” Geralt threw back, and Eskel laughed.

Jaskier just grinned, feeling very warm and fuzzy. _Definitely_ the wine, though. 

***

Geralt placed the box from his room carefully on the table next to Lambert’s elbow and sat down on the bench heavily. The other paused briefly, but didn’t look up. He was playing a solo game with his Gwent cards, accompanied by a huge alchemy flask of moonshine and a collection of goblets leftover from the night before. 

“I was hoping you could help me sort through these,” Geralt shifted the box onto its side and carefully tipped out its contents before him; the flood of Gwent cards stopped at the forearm he used to protect Lambert’s playing area. “I can’t remember how to play, and I’m not even sure I remember how to put a deck together.”

Lambert’s eyes flickered up from his hand to the avalanche of playing cards, pupils narrowing. He said nothing at first, _evaluating_ , and then, “Is that an Aguara?” He reached across Geralt’s arm and plucked it from the pile, turning it over in his fingers. A long pause followed as Lambert considered _more_ than just the legendary card in his hand. “Well, a Witcher that can’t play Gwent is more pathetic than one that can’t wield a sword. Shuffle in close, young initiate. Let the master show you how it’s done.” He tucked the Aguara into his own deck. “I’m keeping this.”

They sat together in the grand hall for hours, and both Eskel and Jaskier independently paused in the corridor to watch them. Lubricated with a generous amount of moonshine, quiet instruction turned into boisterous laughter and slaps on the shoulder, louder when Geralt fumbled than when he got something right, obviously; Lambert was no saint. He _wasn’t_ many things in fact - patient, disciplined, calm - and he had made some _really_ poor decisions in his lifetime, but no one had _ever_ questioned his loyalty.


	24. Spring Rains

Geralt’s memories and recollections of his time at Kaer Morhen - with Eskel especially - were coming back in earnest. It often happened while walking through the castle with the man himself. Small snippets here and there; training, a white goat, games of cards, but nothing quite like the memory of reading with Eskel in bed. Nothing that had the same level of power. The moment that warm feeling had spread through his body - safe, comfortable - had been enough to lull him to sleep against Eskel’s chest despite the roaring turmoil in his head.

This was his closest friend, his haven in an otherwise miserable existence when they were young, but there was something _else_ he was missing. 

The memory cut off at falling asleep while reading, and it still hadn’t filled itself in. It felt significant, but every time he went to ask, he stopped. Just like he had stopped before touching his hand. _Undeserving_. Geralt remembered what had happened after the additional trials; pushing Eskel away; creating a distance between them to keep him safe from the tempest. _It felt so foolish now._ Making the same mistake twice in a lifetime with two different people he cared deeply about. 

One afternoon Geralt found himself in the old dormitory, cluttered with broken and disused furniture. After the Purges, each of the remaining Witchers had claimed a room for themselves and moved in as is; Geralt had hauled his own bunk up there because there was something comforting about the familiar, but Eskel had ditched his in favour of one of the bigger beds that were available to the instructors. 

He found Eskel’s old bunk instinctively, shoved out of place against a far wall, and sat down. The wool blanket was ratty and moth-eaten, but he lifted it to his lap anyway. “Hmm.” A quick glance around the cavernous, empty room as he threw his legs up onto the mattress and shuffled until he could lay flat.

> _Nothing._

He pulled the blanket over him, cold and slightly damp until his body heat began to warm it, and closed his eyes. Focusing on Eskel’s scent helped last time, so Geralt recalled that very recent memory to help, and easily resurrected the feeling of Eskel’s body behind him…

> _She seemed to like it quite a lot - he used his tongue in the book - maybe we should practice?_

The heat began to rise up Geralt’s chest and neck as he sank into the memory, lips parting to accept the ghost of a tongue between them as his stomach knotted. It wasn’t finished. He could sense frayed edges, and so he stayed still to try and follow the line.

> _Fuck, Eskel… - Say that again, Geralt. Say my name again._

Geralt’s eyes snapped open. He was panting and could feel--, he glanced down at his crotch and then threw his head back. Two palms rubbed up his face, and came away with the first beads of sweat that had formed on his brow. 

_Brothers._ Right. He’d been in deep with Eskel and then pushed him away through a mixture of horror at his own transformation, and a fear of hurting him. Yet had hurt him all the same. Continuously. For over eighty years. It had felt like the _right_ thing to do, and the Path just made it easier. Just like it had to send Jaskier away on the mountain. _Look how that had panned out._ Geralt’s voice echoed through the empty chamber. A succinct reflection.

“Fuck.”

***

“Jaskier, you and Eskel are close.” Geralt picked up an ornate drinking horn from the floor. He had a vague recollection that it came from Skellige, but there was more to the memory, and he kept coming back to it. 

“Mmhm.” Jaskier looked engrossed in his task, carefully pinning down a couple of maps that kept skittering away every time Geralt opened the window for some air, but he knew a loaded conversation starter when he heard one and his movements slowed.

“Has he told you much about our time here at Kaer Morhen? When we were trainees.” He placed the drinking horn down by his knees, brow furrowed, and planted his hands on his thighs. 

“Yes,” Jaskier sat back too, head tilted to the side. ”I know that you trained together, that you were closer than brothers.” Trying to be as diplomatic as he could. This was Eskel’s conversation to have. Not his. 

“Hmm.” Geralt’s brow furrowed as he recalled the night they read together. Once the memories had surfaced - the warm comfort of sprawling in Eskel’s bunk as a trainee - it had been so easy to melt into it. The most secure and balanced he had felt since waking up. Then the dormitory. Eskel was still relatively guarded and hadn’t really offered much more information than ‘we’re brothers’ and ‘we trained together’. 

“You should talk to him about it,” Jaskier prompted, shuffling around the edge of the map with an image in his hand. “He cares for you deeply, but I think there are some apologies that need to be exchanged. I’m… hmm.” He reeled himself back in and passed the image into Geralt’s lap. Time to change the subject before he overstepped the mark. “Now, I remember _this_ contract like it was yesterday. It’s branded into my memory. We’d just walked through a terrible storm and…”

Geralt listened, subconsciously leaning in to Jaskier, and closed his eyes as his mind pieced together the shattered fragments of his own recollection.

***

Jaskier sat astride Eskel’s lap as they kissed, raised on his knees and pressed against the toned muscles of Eskel’s abdomen; he kept the Witcher’s head tilted back at his mercy with two firm hands at his jaw. He could feel him kneading gently at his ass and stroking up over his lower back, encouraging Jaskier closer still, happy to be the willing vessel of such passionate love.

Eskel enjoyed this as much as the sex; the intimacy of a lover’s body against his, their mouths and tongues locked in long, drawn out union until his lips were swollen and his chest breathless. It was romantic, loving, and Jaskier knew it nurtured the big heart that beat inside his chest, so ensured it happened as much as possible. He threaded his hands over Eskel’s jaw and carded his fingers through his hair, languishing in the heat of his mouth for only a moment longer, before he drew away and pressed his lips to the side of his neck, teasing flushed skin with his tongue. 

“You’re too good to me,” Eskel murmured, head flopping sideways to allow Jaskier as much of his neck as he wanted, while he sought to press a kiss into the palm still at his face. 

“You deserve it all,” Jaskier sat back into Eskel’s lap. The Witcher’s legs were crossed loosely, and so Jaskier’s rear dipped down comfortably into the gap. “O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out? Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days… well, at your side, I think it could hold out forever.” 

“I can see how you managed to convince so many young men and women into your bed, Jaskier.” Eskel grinned, allowing his chin to be grabbed and tweaked in punishment.

“Yes, well, with you, all I had to do was recite a bawdy poem at a weasel of a nobleman, so I need to make up for all the lost opportunity.” 

“Mm. It was a funny poem. Educational too.”

“You can’t get over the fact that I’ve seen the Emperor’s cock, can you?”

“No, it’s a source of endless amusement.” Eskel slid his palms down Jaskier’s thighs, an affectionate caress rather than a prompt for anything further. “How’s it going with Geralt?”

“Very well, actually,” Jaskier beamed, fingers toying through the chain of Eskel’s medallion. “He’s remembering so much now. And more quickly. It’s like cracking open a dam. The more stone we pull away, the more water seems to be flooding through.”

“It’s like talking to Geralt before his extra mutations,” Eskel tilted his chin down to watch Jaskier’s fingers. “But I don’t think he remembers everything yet.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” he lifted his hand to tilt Eskel’s head up. “He asked me what I knew about your time here as trainees today and looked quite perplexed. I think he might remember more than he’s letting on, and isn’t quite sure how to deal with it from his newfound perspective.”

“Well, shit,” Eskel knocked his head back again, fingers tapping on Jaskier’s thighs as he mulled over that little revelation. “You know, I’m not sure how to deal with it from his newfound perspective either. So I vote I continue to just not mention anything, and we go back to the pre-Pogrom arrangement.” _Miserable yet manageable_. Keeping them standards and expectations nice and low. 

“Eskel,” Jaskier set his brow. “Don’t be craven in matters of the heart. That’s the worst type of cowardice.” A hand smoothed through Eskel’s hair and he leaned their foreheads together so that their eyes lined up. “Just remember what I said before all this began. Your heart is big enough for all _three_ of us, so if it is something you want to open yourself to, then I will stand loyally at your side. As long as you share.” 

“Urrff.”

Jaskier squinted. “What?”

“Get the oil, because I want you so badly my soul hurts.”

Jaskier laughed and rolled off the bed to find the vial.

***

As Vesemir had predicted at the beginning of the season, the small family of griffons nesting high up in the valley needed to be dealt with. He dispatched Eskel and Geralt, scolding Lambert back into the keep when he turned up to help. _Not yet._

Three griffons; a mated pair and their chick. The baby had matured well during the winter and had developed a healthy mane and quills. It was a shame really, but they were hunting the villagers at the bottom of the valley and it was causing havoc. The Witchers found the nest easily enough and waited for one of the adults to head off on the hunt. Ten minutes past and they crouched low in the foliage, listening to the squeaks and snuffles on the ledge below. Geralt moved forward carefully and kicked some stones over the side into the nest. The remaining adult - the female - snarled upwards, but didn’t move. He did it a second time and more pebbles clattered down; the chick mewled unhappily and that spurred its mother into action.

She erupted over the ledge to meet the potential predators and Eskel was ready for her. He let loose a powerful Aard that knocked her to the earth, and Geralt set immediately upon her wings while she was dazed. He sliced through the lesser coverts of her right wing before she could recover, and then ducked under her left wing as she swung around in an attempt to locate a target. Eskel rolled under a thrashing tail and managed to bury his blade in her haunch; she swung around with a roaring cry to snap at him, providing Geralt the opportunity to slice through her throat.

The griffon gurgled and writhed as she fell, oily blood soaking through her mane and into the earth. They stepped up to the ledge together and looked down at the chick. Male, by the looks of it, not very far off from being able to fly. It looked up at them, purring and ticking in warning. Geralt held out his left hand in a fist and Eskel blinked down at it, but responded in kind. They bounced them three times; he pulled rock, Geralt pulled paper, and Eskel jumped down into the nest with an irate sigh. 

The male returned and was rightfully pissed when he found the corpse of his mate and baby. The smell of his dead kin camouflaged the two Witchers that awaited him in the bushes, and the element of surprise made it a quick fight. He fought savagely through several mortal wounds, but in the end slumped at the side of his partner with a shuddering death rattle. Eskel sighed, “Ever wonder who the real monsters are?” He yanked a rag from his back pocket and dragged it down his blade.

“I don’t need to wonder.” Geralt murmured, pulling his trophy knife from his belt. Vesemir would collect on this contract and keep the coin to top up any supplies at Kaer Morhen that could not be grown.

The skies were overcast and the smell of spring's first rain hung in the air, so it was no surprise when the heavens opened on their way back to the keep. Landslides were common in this area and Eskel led them to the nearest cave network he knew of, biting the side of his cheek when he realised _what_ cave they ended up in.

They guided Scorpion and Vesemir’s cob into the shelter, removed the weight of the trophies temporarily and quickly set up a fire with a bundle of dry twigs and leaves that weren’t yet soaked with water. By the time they sat down, both were drenched through to their smalls. “Remind me why we didn’t bring a cloak?” Eskel grumbled.

“Was meant to be a quick job. Cloaks get in the way.” Geralt smiled at him over the fire, brushing wet hair over his head. They sat in silence as the flames crackled and the horses snuffled at the cave moss and debris. Geralt looked out of the cave mouth and then back at Eskel; he was watching the rain. _He was watching the rain._

> _We’re still… brothers, right, Geralt?_

“Always.” He said it without even thinking, and Eskel went rigid. Back straight and eyes wide, he looked around slowly, the Adam's apple in his throat bobbing as he swallowed. Geralt continued, “I thought you’d died when I found you that day.”

Eskel could barely breathe, but managed to scramble a few words together, his voice cracking at the edges. “Nearly did. Lucky that you found me.”

“Wasn’t luck though, was it? I tracked you for three days,” Geralt murmured, head tilting as Eskel rose suddenly to his feet, hands planted on his hips and broad back turned. “Because the thought of you on your own out here was too much to bear.”

“Every Witcher walks the Path alone, Geralt. That’s the point of this Trial.” Eskel’s head was bowed now, and Geralt could _hear_ the hitch in his breath, but couldn’t catch any more scents over that of the bloodied trophies sitting near the cave mouth and the scent of spring rains pouring in from outside. Eskel still didn’t look at him, but spoke to the cave floor, even when the sound of scraping indicated that Geralt was climbing to his feet. “What else do you remember?” 

“Nights spent in your bunk, in your arms,” Geralt moved slowly, treading softly; he knew he was out of Eskel’s eye line, but his voice moving closer indicated his increasing proximity. “Kissing you, touching you.” Eskel tensed and turned now, heel catching on a rock as he stumbled away in an uncharacteristic fumble, but Geralt kept moving forward until Eskel’s back was pushed against the wall and he was impossibly close. “Loving you… and then pushing you away.” His fingers were brushing over the side of Eskel’s face before he knew what he was doing; the hand that seized his wrist and pulled it away gripped with feral intensity.

“Why are you doing this?” Eskel’s voice was taut, and his eyes bled with miserable uncertainty, because the man he’d loved, so passionately and unerringly, for more than a normal human lifespan was now looking at him with such affection and warmth that his head swam.

“I want you to know,” Geralt didn’t pull his arm away, he let Eskel grip it even when his own hand started to turn white from lack of blood circulation. “I made a shit choice. I thought that I’d just get you killed, and I wasn’t even sure what to make of myself when I came out of the mutations. Didn’t feel like me, didn’t _look_ like me. Didn’t think you’d want me after what they’d done. And the Path just made it easier to let you go.”

Eskel hit him so hard he saw stars. Staggered, Geralt fell onto his ass and slumped back onto his elbows. There wasn’t even a second to recover because Eskel was on his chest, pinning him to the floor with teeth clenched. “You had no fucking _right_ to make that choice on your own,” he snarled. “I would _die_ for you. Face every evil. And you cast me aside. You selfish _prick._ ” Eskel hit him again and split his lip this time; Geralt coughed as the blood hit the back of his throat. Rainwater still dripped down Eskel’s face from his hair, pooling at the hollow of his throat before it progressed underneath his shirt and gambeson, and Geralt watched its trajectory, framed by shoulders heaving with shuddering pants. Eskel seethed, “And I still couldn’t leave you, could I? Because--.” _I fucking love you._

Eskel felt the same swelling panic in his chest that he had when staggering into Geralt's funeral pyre. Couldn't breathe. Could barely see. Losing Geralt then. Losing him after the Pogrom to racists and murderers. Wanting to throw himself into the flames, because a world without Geralt was an empty one. Searching for answers at Rivia, from the bottom of a bottle. Being saved only by the loyalty of a brother and the love of a bard. It came crashing down onto Eskel's shoulders and shattered him to pieces. He snatched frantically for anything that would give him anchorage; a direction; _something._

“I’m sorry… don’t leave me, Eskel.” Geralt croaked. Turning briefly to spit blood onto the cave floor, he looked back and his mouth was instantly consumed in a furiously passionate kiss. The split on his lip stung with it, and he could barely breathe as Eskel’s tongue pushed in and demanded penance. As his senses returned, Geralt shoved a foot into the floor and pushed Eskel over onto his back; he didn’t resist when their mouths remained locked together, and still gripped fiercely at Geralt’s shirt to pull him close. Eskel was shaking and would swear later that it was the chill from the rainwater, but Geralt knew better. He knew this man intimately. Knew him in every way. He was sure. And he needed to reacquaint himself with every part.

Geralt kissed Eskel until the downpour had finished and their clothes were dry, whispering gentle love against his skin.


	25. Tighter Bonds (E)

“How did it go on the hunt?” Deciding that Eskel had used enough time to brood, Jaskier placed his lute aside and cradled his drink on his chest. 

Geralt had spent the evening with them in Eskel’s room playing cards and drinking, with Lambert too drunk on moonshine after dinner and passed out in his own bed. Once his eyes were heavy, Geralt departed, ruffling a hand through the hair of both before he left. Jaskier had grinned, Eskel had looked like a deer in the sights of a hunter's bow. And then started _brooding._ Very un-Eskel-like.

“It was quite a simple hunt; male, female and their chick. Geralt lured the mother up by--”

“Eskel,” Jaskier hunched to the side and rested his chin on his knuckles, “I appreciate your attempt to give me more source material, but the information I’m looking for can’t really appear in a ballad.” He paused. “Unless you give me permission. The love affair between two Witchers would be quite the crowd pleaser.”

Eskel groaned and slumped back in his chair. “I hit him, and then I kissed him.”

“Well, that message was… nice and clear, wasn’t it?” Jaskier had wondered where Geralt’s black eye and split lip came from, but put it down to a minor injury from the griffon hunt.

“I think so,” Eskel said it defensively, but didn’t look very certain. “I just… I can’t…” He paused, dropped his face into his palm and gave himself a moment to find the words. “What if he goes out on the Path and realises that he doesn’t want me again?” Spoken to the floor, because talking to anyone about this was uncomfortable. He should have known Jaskier would be on him in a second, forcing his way onto his lap, and pushing his head right back so their eyes met.

“Then we will hunt him together, because if he breaks your heart, then he will break mine, and no one gets away with a third time and lives to tell the tale.” Countess de Stael would beg to differ, but she was a special case. Long gone now too, so she couldn’t contradict him. With Geralt, he meant it. To go through this process of change and rediscovery, and then _choose_ to default back to his old ways would be unforgivable, but… “He will need support though. I don’t think he’s actually dealt with the fact that he _died_ and came _back_ yet. I’m expecting a kind of...” His fingers fluttered in the air. “I don’t know, a breakdown? Do Witchers have breakdowns?”

“I didn’t think so until I nearly leapt onto his funeral pyre with an old set of his armour.” 

“You did what?” Jaskier clasped his hands around Eskel’s face and looked down into those miserable amber eyes; he didn’t need an answer. Arms wrapped about Eskel’s shoulders, he leaned forward and nestled his face against his neck. “I know this is hard. But there’s really only one question you need to answer, and that will guide you through everything else. It doesn’t make everything forgivable, and you must hold him to a high standard as you deserve nothing less than honesty and devotion, but it will give you direction.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you love him?”

Eskel wrapped his arms about Jaskier’s waist and pulled him somehow closer. His answer was soft, and he whispered it into Jaskier’s lips as he nudged him up for a kiss. “Yes.”

***

“Wouldn’t even let me help with the fucking griffons. Like I’m a fucking trainee.”

Perched on the highest turret of the keep, Lambert surveyed Morhen Valley. A patchwork of white, green and brown stretched out as far as the eye could see. A lot of the snow had washed away in the rains a couple of days ago. The Blue Mountains were waking after their winter sleep, and soon it would be time to leave for the Path. He squinted down into the treeline several miles out; was that a bandit camp? Looked well-organised. Mostly obscured from even the highest accessible point in the castle without doing a bit of wall climbing. _Fuck, scoia’tael probably._ Mention it to Vesemir when he got down. 

Lambert lifted his right arm before him and ran his eyes down the livid red scar; flexing his fingers made it ripple, and he could still feel the strain inside it. An hour. It had taken him an hour to climb up here, because his grip kept failing. Twenty minutes was his record. He had almost fallen to his death four times on this one. 

He curled his fingers into his palm and punched his knuckles into his temple, snarling through the combined pain in his head and the burning sting that snaked down his forearm. _Fucking useless._ It wasn't the wound. Broken bones were common. Hell, even Geralt, the great and _magnificent_ White Wolf, had spent thirty-six days healing in Brokilon after breaking a leg and forearm. The dryads pulled out all the stops; conynhaela and knitbone. Lambert was lucky. Geralt got to feel the cold every winter in those injuries, because that was a side effect of knitbone…

"Good," he informed the open sky, and then huffed a sigh, "I didn't mean that." Another growl of frustration and he covered his face with his palm.

No, it wasn't the broken bone. Or the pain. It was the resulting feeling of helplessness he hated. It reminded him of a time when he was powerless and alone; too weak to defend himself or… he pinched the bridge of his nose as a familiar headache flared to life. Every time he was too weak, someone else paid the price. His mother, Voltehre, nearly Jaskier; just three of his sins. Amber eyes flickered open and considered the sheer drop before him. So strange how the mind immediately went to _what if I just leaned forward and…?_ Lambert rested his jaw against his knuckles and raised an eyebrow at the thought. 

"Would make a mess," he glanced across to a small bird as it landed close by, head cocked to the side as it cheeped and hopped, apparently irritated by his presence, "fuck off, I was here first." It continued to chirp and hop in earnest. "You're not scared of me, are you? I could crush you like a…" He narrowed his eyes and fluttered a hand at it. Hop hop. Chirp chirp. "I'm getting hazed by a sparrow. This is a low point." 

The sun was beginning to set on another day and he still hadn't found equilibrium. This was no good. He needed this feeling gone. Needed someone to just come and pluck it out of his head for a few hours. Feel worthy again. Take away all the responsibility and just… be. He knew just the man for the job. He looked at the bird. "Gunna go find Eskel. Roof's all yours. Don't shit all over it while I'm away." He hopped off the battlement and fell the several feet to the next ledge; the descent was always more adrenalin-pumping than the climb.

***

"He’s… it’s like he’s full of energy," Jaskier beamed across at Eskel as they walked down the corridor towards his room. "We talked for hours today, and he's even starting to challenge me on some of the details. He wants to talk about you too, and he gets this little wistful look. Tries to hide it, but I spent _years_ reading his micro-expressions, mainly out of self-preservation. And he… he smiles _all the time_. I've never…"

Eskel reached a hand across to ruffle Jaskier's hair. "He can do that. Quite a sight, eh?" 

"It's like someone captured the sun and placed it in his eyes, and those little crinkles, I cannot _wait_ until you invite him back, because-," he nudged Eskel with his elbow as the Witcher opened the door and stepped aside with a courtly bow, "why thank you, good sir. Don't think you can earn your way into my knickers quite that easily th--."

It was like the world suddenly sped up. One minute Jaskier was upright and considering whether he would need an extra blanket tonight or not, and the next he was on his back, winded, covered by a huge, growling… Lambert. He pinned Jaskier's wrists, and rubbed his face into the silk of his doublet, hips gyrating and rubbing over toned thighs, while his naked torso bore down over him. "Can't breathe. Too heavy." Jaskier managed to wheeze out, although _fuck_ , being pinned by a feral Witcher was definitely something he was revisiting. A lot. And soon.

Lambert lifted his face away from Jaskier's chest to lock eyes with Eskel. He rolled his hips against Jaskier again and curled his upper lip in challenge. His ambush only possible because his scent was always in Eskel's room anyway.

"Off. Now," Eskel's voice rumbled low, eyes tracing the line of the collar around Lambert's neck. When the response was another growl, he moved forward swiftly and hauled Lambert away, fingers clenching supple leather and drawing the Witcher up to his face. "Are you disobeying me?" This was a new facet to the game. Lambert was trying to antagonise him. Jaskier had said this might happen as Lambert explored his predilection. 

"Yes," Lambert grated out, eyes alight and fingers curling around Eskel's wrist. "What you gonna' do?" 

Jaskier sat up, brushing the hair from his face. "If I could make a suggestion," he indicated the burlap sack under Eskel's window. Preparation for their return to the Path was already underway, and Jaskier knew that bag was full of coiled rope. "I think he needs reminding who his dominant is, Eskel." 

Catching on quickly, Eskel considered the sack and then the man collared in his hand. "Mmm," Eskel didn't need to drag Lambert across the room; he squeezed the collar pointedly before releasing it. "I think I agree." His chin jerked towards the bed, eyes never leaving the other, even as he skulked away.

Jaskier followed Lambert to the bed and slipped his fingers around his jaw to bring his face up. "Listen carefully, dear heart, this is important," he smoothed a thumb over Lambert's lower lip, plush and so very kissable. "Have you ever played like this before? With rope? Given up all control?"

An eyebrow raised, Lambert watched Eskel drop three bundles of rope onto the bed. "Nothing I couldn't break out of if I wanted." Girls tying him to bedposts to ride him - seemed to be quite a common fantasy with women and Witchers - and then yelping in alarm when he got bored and yanked himself free, either by breaking the bindings or the bed itself.

"Couple of things then. If it goes well, you will enter a very dreamy space in your head, probably more intense than the ones you've experienced so far, don't worry, enjoy it," Jaskier stroked a hand down the side of his neck, tugging lightly. "If you want it to stop immediately, you need to tell us. So we need a word that you will shout if it's too much."

Lambert squinted. "Any word?"

"Preferably one you won't shout when you orgasm."

"Merigold." 

Eskel snorted with laughter, and Jaskier felt the smirk spread over Lambert's face between his palms. "You really need to work through whatever-," he sighed, leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Lambert's forehead. "Alright." Soft fingers worked their way down his bare torso to the buckle of his belt and carefully teased it free. Golden eyes watched his every movement, and as Jaskier slipped open the ties Lambert was already filling out. He couldn't help but touch his cock once after pulling away leather trousers and cotton braies, velvety skin smooth and hot beneath his fingertips. Lambert tilted his hips forward into the touch, sliding his length through Jaskier's palm and up his wrist until Jaskier's fingers were nestled in the dark curls at the base. Eyebrow raised, Jaskier placed a palm against his chest to push him away. "You'll want to save it." Lambert looked disappointed, but kicked his trousers and braies free and climbed onto the bed.

"Arms behind your back, line your forearms up horizontally. Right on top of left." Eskel, still fully clothed, knelt on the edge of the bed behind Lambert holding the first coil of rope. There was a brief moment of hesitance as Lambert glanced over his shoulders, assuring himself of the safe hands he was about to fall into. _Eskel._ His arms pressed together behind his back and the rope settled over his skin. Jaskier perched himself by the headboard to watch, doublet and breeches discarded.

Lambert expected burns and discomfort, but every time Eskel moved the rope, he lifted it carefully away from his skin and settled it back in place. Measured, careful. Other than the occasional brush of his fingers as he tied knots, Eskel wasn't actually touching him though, and Lambert tried to lean towards his hands. "Stay still." A dangerous growl that pooled in the pit of Lambert's stomach. He was still.

Two loops wrapped his chest, one at the top and one beneath his pectorals. The lines pulled taut as Eskel wrapped the slack rope repeatedly between his forearms and knotted them tight. When Lambert tried to move his arms, roll his shoulders, there was no give. His heart sped up and lips parted. He couldn't get out of this one. Every time he tugged one way, it tightened somewhere else.

"Going to lean you onto your front," Eskel murmured, a broad palm splaying across Lambert's chest to lower him onto the bed. A second ream of rope uncoiled as he took one of Lambert's ankles and lifted it. A kick against the grip, and he paused, giving Lambert an opportunity to consider, one thumb circling slowly on the soft skin at the bottom of his leg. Tense muscles relaxed and Eskel set about binding Lambert's calf muscle along his thigh; left leg, then the right with a third rope. When he stepped back, the sight before him knocked the air from his lungs and he adjusted his trousers when they proved too confining for his growing erection. 

Legs still splayed from where Eskel had left them, Lambert was open and vulnerable; the firm curves of his ass spread so that Eskel could see his balls and the tight furl of his entrance. The muscles of his legs were stretched almost to their full flexibility - he knew Lambert was a flexible little fuck because of all the backflips and clambering he did - but to see it so perfectly defined by rope and stretch was intoxicating. He sucked in a deep steadying breath and looked across to Jaskier. The bard was watching his reaction with wide eyes, cherub lips damp and parted, cotton braies doing nothing to disguise how aroused he was watching Eskel's composure flake. Lambert mewled and tried to flex his legs, and Jaskier watched the thick muscles of his thighs strain into the rope. _Thank me later, Eskel._

Lambert drew in a stuttering sigh. The expected panic didn't take hold, because he could _feel_ Eskel nearby; his broad shoulders, his warm scent. Lambert's control hadn't been stripped away and cast aside to leave him flailing; it had been transferred to the set of firm hands that carefully ran across his forearm now to check the tightness around his recovering injury. The _feeling_ crept up on him slowly. Helpless abandon. A kind of floating dizziness. It didn't claw its way through his head in terror, but spread like warm sunlight through his body until there was a quiet buzz just below the surface. More potent every time he tugged at the restraints and they held, and every time he thought of Eskel and his big hands and growling tone. _Stay still._ Lambert shivered and stared wistfully into the middle distance.

Moments later, Eskel circled and shuffled onto the bed in front of him, lifting him back upright with careful hands. Forced to slouch back and unable to curl forward to maintain any kind of agency, Lambert felt exposed under the golden fire of those eyes and his cock ached with need. Kneeling, expression stoic, Eskel's gaze ran over his handiwork from the front, but his damn _hands were staying right where they were._ Lambert strained again, his skin flushed and sensitive beneath the pull of the rope. Eskel titled his head. "Did you want something?"

Lambert's brow furrowed. "Touch me," he demanded, and when Eskel didn't move, "please." The second part came out in more of a whine, and he clenched his teeth.

"Very polite," Eskel lifted a palm from his thigh and ran his fingertips lightly around one of Lambert's nipples, flushed with blood from the press of the ropes. The touch was featherlight, but it elicited a quiet gasp. Eskel traced the line of one rope below a pectoral, watching goosebumps blossom in the wake of his fingertips. Lambert's mouth fell open as the sensation spread over his skin like ripples on the surface of a lake, beyond even the initial contact. 

"He's so beautiful like this." Jaskier whispered, admiring the flush of blood up Lambert's chest and neck. The way the ropes seemed to emphasise the masculine lines of his shoulders and the rippling muscle of his back. Power suppressed; contained. 

"Did you hear that?" Eskel leaned forward on his knuckles and ducked to seek Lambert's eyes. There was a risk that Lambert would bottle up and not use his failsafe, so Eskel was keeping careful watch for physical distress, occasionally scenting the air in search of fear or panic. When two hazy eyes lifted to meet his, soft and glowing, he leaned back again. "Good boy."

It was beautiful torture. The gentle flutter of Eskel's fingers over his skin, following the lines of the rope until Lambert was shivering with every touch, sweat beading over his back and forehead. Eskel was so near, but Lambert couldn’t _get_ to him, his scent so heady and palms like fire. Lambert tried to lean in, to line his body up so he could rut his throbbing cock against the clothed thigh nearby for relief, but Eskel only tutted. "Patience."

Lambert whined, but it turned into a deep moan when Eskel kneaded a nipple between finger and thumb. Words were now beyond the limits of his consciousness. Lambert tried to say Eskel's name, to beg him, but nothing came out. It was like he was watching through water; the world was distant, his only connection to it the touch of Eskel's hands and the deep rumble of his voice when he spoke. The moment his palm slipped over Lambert's cock forced a muted cry from his throat. 

Callused fingers teased him, fondling his balls before taking a firmer grip and gliding from tip to base. Eskel leaned in close and spoke into his ear, "Such a good boy for me. Make some noise. Show me how much you want it." Lambert moaned and whimpered, louder than he ever had in his life, head tilted to Eskel's shoulder as he fondled a nipple in time with the hand on his cock until Lambert teetered on the brink, his cock twitching and leaking into Eskel's hand, and then it all _stopped._

Lambert felt winded and bereft; strong hands pushed him forward but didn’t let him fall. He was vaguely aware of a pillow under his hips before the searing heat of Eskel’s mouth was on the back of his neck; his hips were flush with Lambert’s bare ass and Lambert could feel his massive erection even through the material of his trousers. Teeth grazed oversensitive flesh as Eskel worked down the line of the ropes; Lambert whimpered and gasped, flinching only when he felt the tip of Eskel’s tongue lap at the top of his ass. 

Eskel pulled back abruptly, “Lambert,” his voice low, palm resting gently on his lower back, “alright?” His gaze flickered to Jaskier, who immediately shifted from his post and crouched down in front of Lambert’s face. Dreamy eyes met his, and Jaskier stroked a thumb over his cheek, giving Eskel a little nod of the head. _All good in Lambertland._

Rather than continue with his mouth, Eskel grabbed the oil and coated his fingers, returning to familiar territory. He kissed the sole of Lambert’s right foot, pinned to his ass by the ropes binding his thigh to his calf, and then eased his fingers down to his entrance in a firm stroke, fingertips teasing in slow circles. It coaxed a low moan and Lambert squirmed, canting his hips as far as he could into the touch. 

Tight muscles clenched at the first finger that slipped inside, and Lambert’s panting moans became increasingly louder with each successive digit that stretched him. He couldn’t do anything to stop it, and he strained against the bindings just once to reinforce the buzz; his shoulders and hips ached a bit, but it was _fucking glorious_ and every inch of skin hummed.

“Gunna’ remind you who owns you, Lambert. Fuck this tight ass raw.” Jaskier smirked at him from his post at Lambert’s head, and Eskel just shrugged, tongue between his teeth in a mischievous grin. _S’way it goes, right?_ It didn’t matter either way, because Lambert was nodding furiously. He might have mumbled something, but it was mostly unintelligible noise.

Eskel unlaced his trousers and shoved them down his thighs, fingers withdrawing carefully and smearing down his erection. Lower lip rolled between his teeth at the heat of his own cock against his palm; _painfully hard_. Tension rippled up Lambert’s back as Eskel placed a knee on the bed, and Eskel leaned forward to place a line of gentle kisses over one of the wrists bound at his back until he relaxed again. One hand dropped to guide the blunt head of his cock home, taking a moment to tease it around the outside until glistening muscles fluttered; Lambert keened, but his body gave and slowly Eskel was able to thrust deeper until Lambert was moaning, low and guttural. 

This was not the first person Eskel had taken while they were bound. Funnily enough, it was a common request from any lover he’d had more than a handful of months, or in one case _days_. It made them feel strong, masculine, to think that a Witcher had to tie them up to overpower them, or so he'd been told; Garstrang did have a tendency to wax poetic about his experiences. But this was the first time he’d had something as powerful and - if we were honest - dangerous as Lambert; another Witcher, with all his coiled strength and energy, helpless, vulnerable, but moaning in ecstasy under Eskel’s attention. As the body around him relaxed, he wound his fingers through the ropes binding his thighs and used them as leverage. Moans became cries as Eskel found Lambert’s prostate and drove into him with force, because this body could take it, and the hungry clench of the muscles around him _demanded_ it.

The bard rested his chin on his hands next to Lambert’s head, eyes flickering lazily from Eskel, hips rolling with criminal amounts of grace, eyes big and lips parted as he drank in the sight of a lover bound and helpless at his mercy, and Lambert’s blissed expression, his eyes hazy as he was thoroughly _plundered_ for every moan and cry he had. Jaskier saw as well as heard the moment he climaxed, the muscles in his back and shoulders clenched beneath the ropes and, “‘Sk-ul!” screamed to the room. Close enough. Eskel managed to ride Lambert through it, but came shortly after with a low moan, burying himself deep and gripping a handful of ass not pinned by a foot.

Feeling almost drunk, Eskel pushed back and found his trophy knife, freshly cleaned, to cut Lambert free. He slipped the blade carefully under the ropes, the only hiss of discomfort from the feel of cold metal against flushed skin rather than the nick of its edge. Each time a rope loosened, the freed limb flopped to the bed and Lambert sighed. Once he was free, Jaskier helped clean him up and together they pulled him up the bed. He was floppy and incoherent, and Eskel looked at Jaskier in concern as he rested Lambert beneath the blankets. The bard smiled, and huddled to Lambert’s side. “It’s alright, stroke him, tell him you love him, he’ll be back when he’s ready.”

Eskel spooned up to Lambert’s back and nuzzled kisses into his stubble, stroked up and down his side and spoke to him softly. Eventually, he could feel a quiet purr vibrating under his hands, and only then did he allow himself to relax back and close his eyes. 

***

After Jaskier’s success with the alchemy ingredients in the kitchen, Vesemir charged him often with scouting the immediate area for herbs. The garden behind the castle had a huge variety of plants, but they needed time to grow now. Vesemir kept a greenhouse too, but there were certain species that only grew in precise locations. When Geralt found out about his little excursions, he raised a protest - there were bandits, scoia’tael, and any number of monsters - but Eskel stepped in and vouched for Jaskier’s ability to look after himself. It had made the bard hum with pride. _Yes, Geralt, you have much to learn, dear heart._

He was about a mile outside the castle walls collecting bryonia. It grew on rocky outcrops, sheltered from the wind and shaded from the sun, so he had to do a little clambering to load up the small satchel over his shoulder. Three more locations to check before he headed back, and he breathed in a lungful of fresh spring air with a small smile as he climbed back down.

“Good afternoon, Jaskier of Redania.” A quiet voice murmured from the shade of a large fir tree, and Jaskier looked up suddenly. The owner was a tall man with dark hair and even darker eyes. His accent was soft, carefully educated out of him, but the southern lilt was still there. His cloak was thick and fur-lined at the collar - it was _cold_ up here for a southerner - but Jaskier caught sight of the insignia on his epaulette. _Nilfgaardian._

“I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.” He cast a glance over his shoulder. How fast could he cover a mile back to the castle? Seven minutes in his youth, but uphill and a damn sight older, probably nowhere near that.

“My name is Luca,” he replied softly. “But that does not really matter. You will be coming with me now, quietly and without fuss.”

“Oh? And why would I do that? I rather get the feeling that you don’t have my health and well-being at the forefront of your mind.”

“There is a small invasion force waiting at the foot of the mountain, highly trained,” he replied, examining the palm of his glove as if bored with the conversation. “If you run, I will return to my forward camp and my commanding officer will give the order to advance. They will take Kaer Morhen and we will burn your Witchers in their courtyard, like the fanatics did to their brothers. We will make sure they are alive when we burn them, and you will watch, then we will take you back to Nilfgaard.” He spoke carefully, his use of a foreign tongue limiting his use of contractions, but it only made him sound more nonchalant.

Jaskier swallowed and, for the first time, fear welled in the pit of his stomach. “You’re lying.” 

“You know I am not. Nilfgaard has little time for sleights of hand or empty threats, but we avoid bloodshed where it is logical to do so. _You_ of all people know that very well.” The Nilfgaardian shot back, dark eyes seemed to bore into Jaskier’s very soul. “What is your decision?”

Jaskier glanced again over his shoulder, towards his small family at Kaer Morhen. Four Witchers he loved more than life itself. _Nilfgaardians did not bluff._ He slowly removed the strap from his shoulder and allowed the bag to drop to the floor. “Very well.” He stepped towards his captor, who, like everyone else on the Continent, underestimated him. No sooner had a gloved hand secured at his elbow did Jaskier lurch forward and bury his hands in his uniform, fingers clawing. 

Luca snarled and hit him squarely in the middle of the face; Jaskier staggered and spluttered, but had secured what he wanted, crushing it to his palm. “N'ess aedragh a me,” Luca squeezed Jaskier’s elbow and hauled him forward. “You are lucky my orders are so clear. They specified all of your appendages needed to be present. Move.” Jaskier mopped the blood dripping from his nose with his sleeve and palm, and opened that hand discreetly at his side. The Nilfgaardian insignia fluttered to the floor as he left. He could only pray this his Witchers could put the pieces together when he didn’t turn up for dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luca says "don't provoke me" in Nilfgaardian.


	26. On The Trail

The sun set, and as the clouds gathered over the darkening sky threatened rain, Eskel paced. "Should be back."

Geralt passed him his swords, "Let's go find him. Probably found an interesting flower. He gets distracted by beautiful things."

"Mm, so we finally get to the bottom of why he followed you all those years." Eskel ignored the perplexed furrow of Geralt’s brow that he always found so endearing and ducked into his sword belts as they headed out into the courtyard.

As the better tracker, Geralt took the lead and bore left immediately out of the gates. The tracks were still fresh, and he followed Jaskier’s progress to a rocky outcrop only a mile west of the keep. He climbed over a large boulder and ran his fingers over the harvested bryonia plants, and then Eskel called up. “Geralt, I’ve found something.” The satchel was packed full of buds and picked leaves, and Jaskier’s scent permeated the material. Eskel’s nostrils flared and he foraged around in the dirt until he found the source, “Fuck.”

The smell of blood tainted the air, coppery and sharp, and Geralt took the scrap of material from Eskel’s hands. Laying it out flat on his palm, he stared down at the insignia. _Flames. Screaming. Black uniforms._ The images were unpleasant and he lifted a hand quickly to his chest as a stab of pain raked through; it wasn’t linked directly, but somehow. _Rivia._ Eskel looked at him quizzically, but he shook his head. Only a vague memory, but enough. “Nilfgaard?”

“Yes.” Eskel crouched down again and ran his fingers lightly over disturbed earth. “There was a brief struggle. They must have ambushed him. Minor injury.”

“Why are Nilfgaard sniffing around this far north?” The map in his room had helped him identify the different kingdoms, their main cities, their rulers. The contextual understanding of the Continent was slowly building around that. The mind was fickle and memories didn't seem to form in a linear pattern, but Geralt was learning to be patient. “What the fuck would they want with Jaskier?” It was a truly minimal amount of blood. Jaskier had endured worse - _vomited_ worse, in fact - but his memories of Nilfgaard were not positive ones; his bard was not safe. _Their_ bard.

Eskel slumped forward against a tree, forearm braced high and forehead resting on it as he breathed deeply through his nose. He was silent, but Geralt could see the tension coiling across his shoulders and down his back. “They found out somehow. Who he was. Where he was. It’s the only explanation. If it's even them, and not just... _fuck._ ” 

“Eskel, I’m not-,” Geralt breathed in a deep sigh, levelling his tone, because he was currently standing here with a rag covered in Jaskier’s blood and Eskel was making about as much sense as a selkimore in the middle of a desert. “Tell me what’s going on.”

With a dismissive grunt, Eskel walked past and headed back up the slope. They trudged all the way back to Kaer Morhen in silence, but with each step he could sense Eskel’s anger building so fiercely that he could almost see it, like a heat haze shimmering from his shoulders.

Upon their arrival, Lambert’s face visibly fell when he looked up, wisecrack about Jaskier’s inability to navigate his way down to his own dick all ready and waiting, and there was no bard there to enjoy it. “Where is he?” Food forgotten, Lambert stood to look around Geralt’s shoulders as if he were somehow obscuring Jaskier from view. 

“Taken,” Eskel murmured, still standing and his hands planted on his hips, as Geralt placed their finds down on the table. “We can assume by Nilfgaard.”

Vesemir placed his cutlery down abruptly. “Nilfgaard in Morhen Valley,” the old Witcher picked up the insignia first, lifting it towards his face and turning it over in his palm to inspect the fabric of the uniform. “They wounded him. This was torn off in a struggle; he must have left it behind deliberately. For us.”

Geralt was only half attending to Vesemir’s words, because he was watching Eskel pace; listening to his quiet, frustrated growls punctuated by erratic, panting sighs. Hands scrubbed over his face, fingers gripped in his hair, arms folding and unfolding. These were all signs of Eskel in distress; he was not a man for explosive bouts of raging temper. He lashed out occasionally, like anyone did, but any genuine torment simmered quietly beneath the surface. He was a master at it. Quiet, moderated, but _serious._ It would become raw and painful, and _then_ it would boil over.

Jaskier in danger was jarring when it happened the first time. It threw your mind into a tailspin of panic as you imagined all the possible fates that could befall him; the memories of the angry rants Geralt had thrown at the bard after plucking him from the jaws of death (or castration, in some cases) were all very fresh now, and they allowed him to carefully moderate his own anxiety. Geralt had saved Jaskier. Every time. Now Eskel would save Jaskier too. He approached Eskel slowly, reaching to take one hand from where it now gripped at the back of his head and pull it away. “Eskel,” his tone sharp, but it served its purpose and Eskel looked at him instantly, his golden eyes a storm of anger and frustration. “Tell us what you know, what you’re thinking. We’ll leave when we have all the information.”

“During the war, Jaskier worked for the Redanian Secret Service. I think someone burned him and now Nilfgaard has come to collect.”

“Shit, Dijkstra?” Lambert’s eyebrows shot up. “And you didn’t mention this until now, because…?”

“He told me in confidence. I didn’t think it was really relevant, I-,” Eskel slammed a fist down on the table, a minor boiling over, and then that hand was back in his hair. “He collected intelligence specifically from inside Nilfgaard. Helped turn the tide at Brenna. Managed to worm his way in _very_ close to the Emperor and his entourage.” 

“Jaskier?” Geralt’s eyebrows were now also in his hairline, and he sat down on the bench, tilting his head to meet Eskel’s eyes and make sure this wasn’t an elaborate joke. “This is the same Jaskier that I had to escort to a court function because he had cuckolded several of the noblemen there, and was in fear for his life. A spy working for the Redanian army?”

Eskel scowled. “Misery makes strange bedfellows, Geralt.” 

When sharpened with such accusation, those words cut deeply. Geralt leaned back, lips pressed together in a thin line. It would be a long stretch to accept responsibility for the current turn of events, but if his abandonment had forced Jaskier to throw himself into peril all those years ago, then he could certainly shoulder some of it. The apology and regret were already bleeding through Eskel's eyes when they lifted to his, and Geralt brushed his fingers across the back of his hand. _It’s fine._ He continued, “How did they know he was here?”

“He told his handler where he would be for the winter,” Eskel paused, considering the logistics, “Nilfgaard wouldn’t have been able to get to him for most of the season, not with the passes full of snow; attacking Kaer Morhen would cost lives, even if they were successful in the end.”

“So his handler betrayed him,” Vesemir folded his arms, brow creased. “Quite risky to snatch a Redanian operative from the northern kingdoms during peacetime, especially if he were to continue travelling with a Witcher, and there’s no guarantee they would be able to track him down. Blue Mountains aren’t really of interest to anyone, and they knew exactly where he would be. It was just a matter of watching and waiting.” A pause. “How didn’t we spot them?”

“Oh shit.” All eyes turned to Lambert now, and he looked visibly pale, gaze cast down to the edge of the table. “I - there was an encampment. About five miles out to the east. It was well hidden, but I spotted it while I was… checking the roof for pests. Thought it was Scoia’tael. They’re usually the only ones that come up this far.” 

“You weren’t to know. That’s where we’ll start the hunt,” Geralt searched for Lambert’s eyes, but the Witcher wasn’t looking at him; his jaw was twitching as he ground his teeth. It would be a wasted breath to try and interrupt Lambert's ritual of private chastisement, and so Geralt let it go for now. An encampment this far up the mountain was usually one of two things; the presence of Nilfgaard was too absurd to consider off the cuff. Geralt looked back to Eskel, “We have enough. We need to leave before the rains wash the trail away.” 

Half an hour later they were saddling up Scorpion and one of the working cobs; Geralt would exchange it for something a bit more lively when they found a suitable alternative. The clatter of the stable door caused both to look up from their packing; Lambert and Vesemir were both weighed down with their own kit. When Eskel opened his mouth to challenge, Lambert placed two fingers squarely in the middle of his chest, eyes narrowed. “ _Our_ bard.” He walked to his bay and clicked his tongue at her as she nickered in appreciation. _Well something other than Eskel had to be pleased to see him._

“And you?” Eskel looked to Vesemir, who hadn’t really left the keep or ventured very far from Morhen Valley in years. This also broke the Witcher vow of neutrality; Jaskier had been taken due to his involvement in a war that Vesemir had wanted no part in.

“I like the lad,” Vesemir lifted a saddle onto the second cob, who huffed in irritation but accepted it onto his back. “Lambert has actually been tolerable this winter, you are happier than I have seen since your child surprise savaged your damn face, and he has decided to give Geralt a second chance and help retrieve his memories,” he turned to wag a finger at the man in question, “despite his absolute assholery up that mountain.” He strapped a saddlebag in place and snatched a halter from the stable wall. “He’s also a damn good librarian and a budding alchemist. As far as I’m concerned, the boy’s family. And I'll be damned if I let another attack on my family in my own territory go unanswered." They were all staring at him, and he grunted dismissively. "Hurry up. I want to be halfway down this mountain by morning.” 

***

Travelling in the dark through Morhen Valley was not for the faint-hearted, and generally ill-advised, but they had little choice. The longer they waited, the further Nilfgaard escaped with Jaskier in tow. Lambert took them in the general direction of the camp and they found it easily at ground level. Obscured by yet another rocky outcrop and a thick copse of fir trees, it would have been impossible to see from any accessible vantage points at Kaer Morhen. 

There were no scorch marks to betray a fire, only disturbed earth from tents and horses. “They were careful, knew the risk of camping so close, they wouldn't have been here long,” Geralt murmured, crouched by a series of scuffs at the western edge. “Perhaps they were hoping we would dismiss his disappearance as a bandit or monster attack.”

“Then they’re bigger fucking morons than I thought they were,” Lambert snarled, kicking irritably through the dirt. “Tracks follow a narrow trail down the mountain. They would’ve had to cross the Killer at some point. Four horses so far.”

The tracks wound their way down a lesser known path and crossed the Killer as Lambert predicted, passing through a ravine, and a dense cluster of trees obscuring one of the huge leaps of faith trainees were expected to perform during their training. By the time they drew a stop to rest and water the horses, the land had flattened out and they were staring out across the first barren plains of greater Kaedwen. Four horses had become twenty, at least.

Geralt watched Eskel for the majority of the ride. Discreet glances from the corner of his eye when they were close, and lengthier examinations when Eskel was riding point. Even when he had been sent to try and rescue Coën from his poor choices, Eskel had been stoic and in control, bearing only the weight of duty and sadness. He was even-tempered, mature and impossibly kind in everything he did. But when something overwhelmed him so thoroughly, he hunkered down and the pressure built inside until he hit breaking point.

Occasionally Eskel shook his head or scrubbed his hand harshly over his face, thumping a fist against his thigh. Even though he knew the horses needed to be rested after a laborious journey picking their way down dangerous trails, Eskel's temper frayed and he stomped around the campsite, casting glances down the path they would take in the morning. There was only one other occasion Geralt had seen this level of anxiety and frustration. Before the Trials. When the kiss they'd shared the night before could have been their last. His memories of Eskel were so vivid in his mind that it felt like they were in training together only yesterday.

Vesemir noticed. As he was dropping the weight of the saddlebag from the cob's back, he called across the fire, "Geralt, Eskel, go find us something to eat. Lambert and I will see to the horses."

Eskel grabbed his crossbow from Scorpion's side and Geralt shouldered three traps. Lambert chirped after them as they disappeared into the treeline, "Eskel, you forgot your oil, it's in the-," the sound of a leather clad palm colliding with a thick skull, "ow, _fuck_ , Vesemir."

Geralt set out the first traps when the noise of the campsite faded, smothering the trigger with damp leaves and brittle twigs, searching for evidence of activity before he set down the others; excrement, tracks, half-consumed vegetation. Eskel busied himself looking for deer tracks, or anything that would indicate a bigger meal. They reached a small brook, the water ran clear so Eskel knelt down and scooped a palm to his mouth. He stayed there, crouched at the edge, and Geralt watched his shoulders stutter only once before he sat down behind him. 

It took barely a brush of fingers across his back for Eskel to fall into Geralt's waiting arms, his chest heaving with ragged pants, his expression wretched and distraught. Geralt held him close, arms wrapped around his chest, the side of his face rested to Eskel's cheek. He held him as he gasped and shuddered, and then remained silent for some time after he calmed. Eventually, when only the ambient sounds of the woodland remained, "We’ll find him, Eskel. He’ll be safe. This isn’t your fault."

"He should have been at the university, I made him come with me. I thought I was protecting him from himself, but I was just... I couldn't spend another winter on my own in that fucking castle, not after last year, and he..."

"Easy," Geralt tightened his arms, turning his face so that his lips rested against Eskel's skin, "You can't make Jaskier do anything he doesn't want to. I tried for years. If anything, he just did the opposite of what I said to prove a point. He wanted to be with you."

He could feel Eskel's smile bloom slowly across his face in the stretch of the cheek beneath his mouth. When he spoke, his voice was more level and the wistful sigh he let out released some of the tension in his shoulders, "He is a tenacious little bastard, isn't he?"

"Yes, and he's infatuated with you," Geralt tightened his grip when Eskel tried to sit up, unwilling to let him go just yet. "I'm glad. Big fucking grin you wear when he’s around suits you."

"Yeah, and the dopey little smile _you_ wear suits you, so guess we're both in deep, aren't we?" Eskel wriggled again, Geralt held him tighter. This was going to quickly descend into a wrestling match, so Eskel slumped. "Do you still have feelings for him like you did? Every winter you'd come and tell us how irritating, colourful and loud he was with that same stupid look. We all knew. Were just waiting for you to get your head out your ass."

"Hm," Geralt kneaded the fabric of the gambeson under his hands. If he lied, then he could leave Eskel and Jaskier with their blissful union, untroubled by the sheer clusterfuck of his emotional ineptitude. Jaskier would be happy in the warmth of Eskel's orbit and with a close friendship, but Eskel would know. It would make the gap bigger. He didn't want to lose Eskel again. "Yes. But I don't want that to affect anything. I've fucked up enough."

"Fuck, you're denser than a rock troll," Eskel growled, trying to sit up, still held tight. "He wants you included. In all of it. So do I. It won't be perfect all the time, and-- I swear to Melitele, if you don't let me sit up, I'm gunna' kick your ass."

"Hmmm," Geralt hummed a little longer in consideration, and then clamped his legs around Eskel's hips. "No." 

Geralt felt the thrill run up his spine as Eskel writhed and then threw himself back with force, tipping Geralt onto the floor. Much tussling ensued as Geralt adjusted his grip back every time Eskel managed to slip an arm or a leg free. They ended up briefly in the little brook and then rolled out the other side, covered in damp leaves and broken twigs. As always happened when they were boys, Eskel ended up face down in the dirt with Geralt sprawled triumphantly over his back. "Submit?"

"This time." A deep huff of breath sent dried dirt skittering away from his mouth.

Geralt leaned in, inhaling a quick hit of that deep, musky scent that settled in the bottom of his chest; calm, comfort. "Are you sure? That you and he, I-," he clenched his jaw, and then rested his forehead against the back of Eskel's shoulder. 

Words were hard. It wasn't that Geralt's vocabulary was limited, or that his wits were dim, not after nearly a century of travelling and _experiencing_. But sometimes the _words_ didn't want to fall in the correct order, or when he rehearsed them in his head they sounded different to when they came out of his mouth. As his memories filtered back in, so did the old lessons and failsafes he had adopted over the years; better to say nothing than make it worse, better to stay distant than risk getting burnt - or worse - burning _._ It hadn't worked. His silence cut more bitterly than any misinterpreted words, his distance scalded the hearts of those he cared about. 

He needed to be better than before. This was his second chance. So he heaved a deep sigh, fortifying himself with Eskel's scent and feel of his sturdy back beneath him, a back that had carried the burden of Geralt's bullshit for long enough. "I would like that… a lot. My fear is that I won't be good enough; I'll just fuck up again."

"Urff, Geralt," Eskel moved his hands underneath him and shoved upwards while Geralt was momentarily distracted, tipping him onto the floor. With Geralt on his back and winded, it gave Eskel enough of an upper hand to slide a hand around the side of his neck, thumb pushing his chin up. "You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact they're not."

"Jaskier?"

"Mmhm," Eskel grinned. "He thinks I'm only half listening to his prattle, as he calls it, but-."

"You're listening to every word," Geralt finished for him, head tilted to ghost his lips over Eskel’s palm; a gesture of gratitude. "We need to get back with food. Eat. A couple of hour’s sleep, then we continue. We can travel more quickly than they can. We’ll catch up.”

Eskel helped him to his feet, and Geralt used the momentum to steal a kiss. Lips parted in shock allowed his tongue to explore, and only a handful of seconds past before Eskel leaned into it. More assured than Geralt remembered from their youth, and less bitingly fierce than the cave, but the familiar map of the mouth against his felt like coming home. When Geralt pulled away, he kept his eyes level, "We'll find him. Bring him home."

"If they kill him, Geralt, I'll gut Emhyr in the centre of his own court, and make him lick the blood from the floor while he begs forgiveness." Eskel walked into the woodlands to check the traps.

Geralt didn't doubt him for a second, and would be at his side to hold the rest of the army at bay.

***

The Nilfgaardians were a hospitable lot. Although Jaskier’s hands were tied to prevent his escape, and the horse he rode on was always sandwiched between two massive soldiers in black armour, they kept him fed and warm during the evenings. Luca hadn’t been lying about the highly trained fighting force. Although there were only twenty in total, each man walked with the air of someone who had killed _very_ many _very_ efficiently. Occasionally they spoke to him, rather enamored by the fact that he understood what they were saying. Mostly. He wasn't fluent by any stretch of the imagination. Nilfgaardian was a derivative of Elder Speech, for heaven's sake. This hospitality didn't stop Jaskier leaving behind his trail; a bit more blood, drank _a lot_ so left his mark there _\- unpleasant but necessary -_ and even a few strands of his hair when he was desperate. Keep the trail fresh for his bloodhounds.

One evening Luca sat down next to him at the fire. Hands still bound and connected to the nearest tree, Jaskier twisted uncomfortably to face his kidnapper. The Nilfgaardian soldier that stood on guard every minute of the day and night cast a quick glance downwards, but otherwise remained silent. Luca spoke softly, addressing the drink in his hand rather than Jaskier himself, "You do not appear to be scared of your fate."

"I am protected by the Peace of Cintra as a prisoner of war," Jaskier murmured. "You have to give Redania seven days once I arrive in Nilfgaard to respond. They have the option to exchange me for one of your men, or something else you may demand. I have two weeks to hatch my daring escape."

"But we are not at war, that treaty only protects those captured before the truce." Luca considered the palm of his glove, head tilted to the side at the impatient glare he received, but not acknowledging it directly. It was the first of many tests to evaluate just how deeply involved Jaskier was in the events that transpired at the end of the conflict. 

"Please,” Jaskier replied, his tone scathing and dismissive. He had been there when they wrote the bloody thing, even if not at the actual signing. 'At war' was also a very loose term; as loose as the word 'peace' between two bitter enemies. Luca and Jaskier both knew this was just a quick breather to regroup before the machinations of conquest started afresh. “I suppose you’re not going to tell me who burned me.”

“Your handler. We had him in interrogation. It only took three days to break him. Not very hardy, these older Redanians.” 

Jaskier swallowed audibly. “I see. Is he still alive?” Luca shook his head, and the bard felt his stomach lurch. This wasn’t good. Too much information freely given should always rouse suspicion. 

"There are, of course, two issues with your perception of events in terms of your escape," Luca lifted those dark eyes to settle upon Jaskier's face, piercing and evaluative. "Firstly, I may have told a small lie. We are actually heading towards Cintra, not Nilfgaard." He indicated vaguely west. "The second is… I do not think I can recall the Redanian Secret Service ever opting to save one of their operatives at the expense of one of their prisoners. We will discuss more when we arrive, of course." He rose to his feet and wandered off into the darkness.

Jaskier swallowed again and looked down at his bound hands. It was a tactic he recognised. The interrogation had already begun; he wasn't foolish. However, Luca didn't need to make up idle threats when the truth was so much more terrifying. Redania would forsake him, and then Nilfgaard had free reign to do exactly what they pleased to find out what secrets he’d stolen, what Redanian secrets he could tell them, and then to punish him accordingly. Those dark eyes promised endless unpleasantness, and, not for the first time, Jaskier looked up to the sky. There was some comfort in knowing he was looking at the same stars as the men currently riding to his rescue. Because Jaskier also knew that, while Redania would leave him to die, his Witchers would not.


	27. Closing In

Murivel was a good twenty miles in their wake, and the trail had become convoluted as the Nilfgaardians cut through the town, but now the Witchers stood on the banks of the Pontar, it had been swallowed by deliberately orchestrated chaos. Jaskier’s captors had crossed through the river rather than use the bridge, and then split up into three units heading in opposite directions. Geralt swore quietly as he crouched in the smattering of tracks, seeking even the smallest hint as to which of the three parties had taken Jaskier. “We need to split up, follow all three trails.” 

Vesemir shook his head. “No. One Witcher against a group of trained Nilfgaardian hitmen, not good odds. If one of us located him, we’d have to call the others. Impossible.”

A long moment of silence passed between them, punctuated only by the gurgle and lap of the river and the whistle of distant birdsong. Eskel paced. If they split and followed the tracks, they could lead to a deadend or an ambush. Either of those options just ate into the time Jaskier had left. There was one other option, besides mindlessly following random trails. He looked north. “We could try the academy in Oxenfurt,” he looked at each inquisitive face in turn. “When I met with him the first time, before we started out on the Path, he had a room there. I was looking through his correspondence because,” Eskel looked at Geralt, but couldn’t backtrack now because they were waiting, “I smelt blood. His blood. All over his journal and one of the letter openers.” 

Geralt’s lips tightened and he looked away. “The scar in his palm.” It wasn’t a question. “Continue.”

Eskel could see the pain etched in the clench of Geralt’s jaw and the tightness around his eyes, and knew it would need to be soothed away later. He continued, gaze straying back to Vesemir. “The correspondence was all addressed to the library or the Dean, and then stamped with ‘Faculty of Most Contemporary History’. Most of it cleverly disguised, or so they thought. I figured it out in about five minutes. If anyone knows where Jaskier is being held, it will be them.”

Lambert grunted. “Agreed. No way Dijkstra would lose track of one of his operatives. They’ll know Nilfgaard has him,” he growled dismissively, hauling himself back up into his saddle. “Doesn’t mean they give a shit about rescuing him though.”

“To the university then.” Vesemir bobbed his head in agreement and took point as they steered towards Oxenfurt. 

The cobs were beginning to tire; they weren’t built for long distance rides, and Geralt would trade them in at the stables just outside the town. He tried to occupy himself with these thoughts, rather than the image of Jaskier sobbing in his dormitory while mutilating one of his finest and most treasured assets in the depths of his grief. Not even his heart, old and beaten as it was, could handle that.

***

_Two days prior…_

The Mahakham mountains loomed large on their left as they headed south-west, and Luca was summoned by his commanding officer for an update. No new intelligence gathered that they didn’t already know; the spy had an in-depth knowledge of the negotiations leading to the treaty signed at the end of the war, he was not unsettled nor willing to bargain for his life. _Not yet_ , Luca promised. He was dismissed with a gruff order to sort his uniform out, a nonchalant flick of the hand indicating his torn epaulette. 

As he stepped outside his commander’s tent, gloved fingers wandered over the frayed edges. He hadn’t noticed it because of the fall of his cloak; it was horrendously cold in the north. How these barbarian nordlings dealt with it, he had no idea. But now he traced the loose threads and tried to recall where he could have lost it. One of the reasons Luca was so very good at his job was his eidetic memory; he could retrace their steps through Kaedwen all the way back to Kaer Morhen and then even further. 

His gaze fell on Jaskier, tugging pointedly at his binds and bellowing across to his escorting soldier that he needed to relieve himself. Again. _Every stop, in fact._ The bard also fell over within the first day of their journey and kept picking at the wound, despite their provision of a bandage. His countenance remained bright and positive, despite his very dire predicament. The pieces fell into place. _Ahh_. Luca smirked, turned back into the tent and drew his commander’s attention. “Aanvoerder.” He made his recommendations.

Jaskier blinked in alarm when he was hauled from his own horse and placed on the saddle in front of Luca. They then bore sharply west and rode through Murivel. The people of the town cried out in horror as the Nilfgaardian troops thundered through, many still raw with the nightmares of the war and expecting bloodshed. When they reached the banks of the Pontar and his escort split into three; the commander barked orders to his lieutenants and two groups ploughed into the river and sped off in different directions at full gallop. Jaskier was left with Luca, the commander and three soldiers. More than enough to handle one bard.

Luca spoke to him quietly once they had cantered for several miles. “Very clever, gvaedyn,” he murmured. “We will ensure the letter to Tretogor is backdated by several days to reward you for your efforts. I will not underestimate you again.”

Jaskier’s heart plummeted into his stomach, but he refused to allow his captors to see his fear. So, he moderated his breathing and clenched his teeth. If they were going to Cintra, then there was really only one lord that would be hosting him. He had far, far worse to come.

***

Oxenfurt was bubbling with activity; the students, professors and all those looking to make a quick coin from their presence. If it were any other time, Eskel could have spent hours wandering the stalls and perusing the scrolls and artefacts; adding to his collection at Kaer Morhen was one of his favourite hobbies. The bustle of the crowded streets faded into the background as they marched to the university. They left the horses in the care of a local stablehand, paying him a handsome fee to get them fed, watered and brushed down. 

The first bit of resistance they met was a set of guards as they tried to head through the entrance hall to an area closed to the public. Lambert didn’t break stride, his left hand lifting to form Axii as they began to move their halberds to intercept. “Go fuck yourselves.” The weapons clattered to the floor as the two men stumbled away, their hands fumbling with the ties on their trousers in their haste to comply.

Lambert could feel Vesemir’s eyes boring into him, but he didn’t bother to acknowledge it as he glanced up and down the corridor, eyeing several distant students as they headed to lectures. “What now?”

“Vesemir and Geralt should go to the Dean, you and I go to the library. We’ll meet back at the stable when we have the information we need.” Eskel looked at the brass signs on the wall with a furrowed brow, and then across to Lambert. “No bloodshed.” The order received a scowl, and a reluctant dip of the head. They headed in opposite directions.

***

After catching a few terrified looking students to ask for directions, they found the Dean’s office. A few more guards stood in their way, but Vesemir dealt with them quickly, his left hand lifted, “Somne.” Geralt stepped forward to catch one as their eyes flickered closed, and they dragged them over to a nearby closet to sleep. Vesemir spoke softly to their sleeping faces, “Sleep for two hours. Return to your post,” he indicated the closed door. “Shall we?”

The office was empty, but the Dean was clearly halfway through some paperwork, and so Geralt and Vesemir made themselves comfortable flanking the door. Geralt considered the bookshelves and found a volume on Aen Sidhe poetry; very old, probably priceless. Eskel would love it. He pulled it free and flicked through with his thumb, the golden-edged pages shining against the leather of his glove, and weighed up whether it was technically stealing if he intended for it to one day get back to the university. “Hmm.” He tucked it away in his gambeson, and Vesemir smirked at his back while it was turned. 

Their patience was rewarded when a rather elderly gentleman in flowing crimson robes blustered through the door, allowing it to swing shut behind him and mumbling something about ‘constant lunch breaks’ and the Redanian army not being ‘what it used to’. He’d noticed his missing security, but not seen it as something to be alarmed by. He didn’t notice the two Witchers against the wall until he turned around to sit himself at his desk, and then his hand immediately leapt to his chest. “Oh my-- guards, guards!” 

“I’m afraid they’re currently indisposed,” Vesemir pushed up from the wall, “But don’t be afraid. We’re not here on a contract. We just require some information. Jaskier of Redania, a bard, has gone missing. We want to know where he is.” 

“I- I can’t possibly- what could I possibly know? He hasn’t been a student here for years. Lectures occasionally for a small fee.” He was practically climbing backwards in his chair as the two Witchers approached, and then his eyes widened as he looked at Geralt. “What in Melitele’s name? You’re… you’re...”

Vesemir glanced over his shoulder. Geralt was playing his role to perfection. Lips pressed in a vague frown, jaw and brow set, eyes narrowed; he looked dangerous, ready to tear flesh from bone at the slightest provocation. There might have even been a faint growl as his knuckles cracked at his sides. _Terrifying_ to the uninitiated. “So you recognise my colleague?”

“Geralt of Rivia, but he’s… you’re _dead,_ I saw the reports myself, I--,” the Dean was shaking uncontrollably now, and Vesemir huffed an impatient sigh. He grabbed the crystal tumbler at the edge of the desk and poured a generous thimble of the spirit into a glass, before sliding it over to one of the Dean’s quivering hands. 

“As you can see, he has since returned to us. Now, if Geralt can beat death, what do you think he will do to you if you don’t provide us with the information we need?” Vesemir leaned back and folded his arms. “Jaskier. He has been captured. Tell us what you know.”

The Dean took a gurgling drink from his tumbler and placed it down heavily. Dijkstra was terrifying, but he was in Tretegor, and the Witchers were _here_. In his office. About to rip his head off and eat the marrow from his bones. No one could blame him. “Fine, I… alright. Just… don’t kill me.”

“Do you know who he has been captured by and why?”

“Look, the Redanian Service only _leases_ rooms here. We sort their mail and make sure it gets to the right operatives, but--,” he caught Geralt’s glare, and gulped, “Nilfgaard.” The Dean managed to drag his eyes away the promise of hellfire that was Geralt’s gaze to look at Vesemir. “Vattier de Rideaux discovered from a Cintran nobleman that Jaskier somehow knew some… information that he shouldn’t. Information only the Emperor and his closest advisors would know.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.” The Dean shrunk back as Geralt took a menacing step forward. He didn’t like the answer.

“Where is he being held?”

“I don’t know! Please! I don’t--.” Geralt moved closer and the old man passed out in his chair, the tumbler falling from his hand and smashing across the floor.

Vesemir blinked and leaned across the desk, glove removed with his teeth, to check the Dean’s pulse. “He’s still alive,” he glanced back at Geralt. “If only they saw what a puppy dog you are around your bard.”

Geralt huffed as he turned to leave. “Bad for business.”

***

The library was well sign-posted and Eskel felt rather winded when he stepped through the huge double doors and it sprawled out in front of him. The shelves had to go on for _miles._ He would hate to guess how many times Kaer Morhen’s library could fit into the room alone. As they walked past the rows and rows of cluttered desks and overflowing cases, Eskel stretched out a hand to run his fingers longingly over a shelf labelled ‘elvish poetry of the second century’. Lambert caught his wide-eyed wonder and gave him a nudge with his elbow. “Come on, bookworm. You can come back here with the bard when we have him back.”

Eskel grunted and continued on. They didn’t encounter any more security, and walked through into the archive to find the head librarian. A couple of terrified students garbled out a brief explanation earlier - short, fat, spectacles and usually pawing through the archives at the back. As they stepped through into the backroom, the embodiment of their description looked up from a huge bound volume, clapping white-gloved hands together. “This area is off-limits to visit--.” He then actually paid attention, because his eyes alighted first on the dual swords strapped to their back and then their faces, both visibly scarred and impatient. As Eskel drew closer to him, he saw the medallion and clenched his teeth. “I wasn’t aware that Witchers took on assassinations.”

“Assassination?” Eskel glanced over his shoulder at Lambert. “You picked up an assassination contract recently?” Lambert jutted out his lower lip and shook his head, before he turned to begin inspecting some of the priceless antiques on the shelves and podiums around the edge of the room. Eskel looked back to the librarian, “We’re here for information. We get it, then everything remains cordial.” There was no need to outline what would happen if they didn’t; the imagination could provide ample scenarios. _Assassination._ The School of Cat really were an insult to the entire fucking order; it made Eskel feel sick.

“And what, pray, could I possibly tell you?”

“We’re looking for Jaskier of Redania. He was taken prisoner by Nilfgaard. We need to know where they took him.”

The librarian huffed. “I have no idea who or what you’re talking about. Now, if you excuse me--.”

“Don’t lie to me. I’ve seen the intelligence reports. Most of them come here before they end up in Jaskier’s hands. You tell me, or--.”

“ _Or what_ , dear Witcher? I have been working in this library _in this role_ for thirty years. Do you not think I have not been threatened before? Your threats pale compared to--.” He was cut off by the sound of shattering glass and porcelain. Both Eskel and librarian turned abruptly towards Lambert.

An ornament lay shattered on the floor at his feet, gloved hands still out in front of him where he’d been holding it seconds earlier. “Oops.” He looked at the librarian with an expression of feigned apology, and then turned, knocking a couple of ancient volumes from their pedestal; they half crumbled to dust as they hit the floor. “So clumsy, don’t know what’s come over me.” He rubbed the back of his head and, as he swung around, his elbow caught an old painting and it toppled off the desk. “Fuck, so sorry. It’s just… getting worse.”

The librarian was apoplectic, and looked at Eskel with pleading eyes. “That… was a priceless piece from Skellige, and those books were… the painting was of the late King Vizimer and... _no, no, not that please!”_ Lambert was eyeing a _very_ old jar and his palm was only placed on it at first, but when the librarian squawked in alarm, he slowly batted it a little closer to the edge of the table, not breaking eye contact now that he had the man’s full attention. The apologetic frown and wide eyes were gone, his brow was now set, his expression carefully blank. 

Not for the first time in recent years, Eskel felt a deep, burning affection for Lambert and made a mental note to buy him an entire brewery at a later date, or provide a lot of petting, whatever he requested. “If you tell me what I need to know, then I can take my brother away,” he heard the grate of porcelain as Lambert pushed the vase just a little bit further, “alternatively, I can allow him to find out whether that jar has a djinn inside. Probably not. Worth a look though.”

“Oh my--,” the librarian was sweating now, his eyes red-rimmed with unshed tears as he looked at the jar. The priceless, one-of-a-kind artefact that he had fastidiously maintained for three decades. “Alright. Alright. What--what do you want to know?”

“Jaskier. Where he was taken and why.”

The librarian screwed up his eyes as if in physical pain, but even the slight flex of Lambert’s shoulders loosened his tongue. “Cintra. He’s in Cintra. Under Lord Haxo at his private residence,” he blustered, barely able to breathe. “He… was loose-lipped. Some stupid _poem_ or something to Haxo’s son-- _no!_ I’m getting there!” He sounded on the verge of tears as Lambert’s fingertips circled on the jar. “The intelligence he used. It could have only come from the Emperor’s mouth itself, he… I _warned_ Dijkstra about him.”

Eskel’s heart felt like it had dropped out the bottom of his chest. _A poem._ A poem bellowed out across a tavern in Redania to school an arrogant young nobleman, and punish him for impugning the honour of a friend. The Witcher covered his face with his palm and remembered to breathe again with a stuttering gasp. When he spoke, his voice was low. “Are there plans to exchange him?”

The librarian’s upper lip quivered in disgust. “He signed his death warrant the moment he opened his mouth. As far as the Redanian Service is concerned, the Nilfgaardians can have him.” Eskel clenched his fists where they had now rested on the desk, and it took every ounce of training to stem the bubbling rage in the bottom of his chest. The idea that someone could so easily cut Jaskier loose when he dangled over a precipice. Without remorse, without a second thought. 

“We’re done here.” Eskel turned his back and walked out of the archive.

Lambert grabbed the jar and threw it towards the librarian as he departed. “Catch.” The man hurled himself out from behind his desk, but the sound of shattering porcelain indicated that he hadn’t quite made it. They walked back through the corridors in silence, although Lambert occasionally brushed his shoulder across Eskel’s bicep to remind him of his presence.

“How did you know that would break him so easily?” Eskel asked finally, soft eyes sliding across to Lambert as they stepped back into the sun.

“Hmm,” Lambert gazed up at the open sky and inhaled a deep lungful of fresh air. “Men that value material things over life, theirs or anyone else's, have this certain look about them. Never understood it myself.” He shrugged and walked ahead towards the stables. Eskel considered the university doors over his shoulder, and then followed.

***

Jaskier vaguely recognised the sprawling estate when they arrived, and then when he saw the golden and red livery of the guards, his chest felt tight. Hauled down from the horse, he was frog-marched through the house and up a wide, stately set of stairs to a study. Covered in several days worth of road dirt, dishevelled and slightly bloody, Jaskier still kept his head high. “Lord Haxo, a pleasure as always.”

The man in question was tall and willowy when standing, but currently sat reclined behind his desk. He had deep set eyes that were as dark as Luca’s, and his grey hair was carefully slicked back to try and disguise the fact that it was thinning. When he spoke, his voice was just as nasally and weak as Jaskier remembered it to be. “We meet again, bard,” he rose from his chair. “Or should I refer to you by your rank instead?”

“Oh, well,” Jaskier made a show of considering it carefully. “I think it’s captain… or major. I’m not entirely sure, my apologies.” He bowed as low as he could with bound hands. Silence followed and Jaskier took a moment to glance around the office. Nothing unique, but he did notice the Nilfgaardian coat of arms sitting _above_ the Cintran one on the wall, and that just made his blood boil. He looked back to Haxo innocently enough. “So, how’s the taste?” He stuck his tongue into the side of his cheek and wiggled it around, to the sheer disgust of the man opposite.

“Take him downstairs. Send the letter with the date from five days ago. They won’t care as long as it looks like we’ve paid lip service to the treaty.” Haxo snarled, and then dismissed them with a flick of the hand. 

Luca seized his elbow, and Jaskier bellowed over his shoulder as he was hauled out the door, “Long live Queen Calanthe!” 

The room arranged for him was not quite a _cell_ , but it wasn’t _comfortable_ either. A bed with clean sheets and blankets, a bucket, two chairs and a writing desk. It was all well-swept and maintained. Probably so the Nilfgaardians could claim that they had looked after their prisoners like gentlemen before the Redanians had _cruelly_ refused to exchange.

The silence was the worst part of it. Jaskier could hear quiet murmured conversations, but there were no windows to the outside world. The sight of that Nilfgaardian coat of arms, so dark and overpowering, continued to irritate him. How Haxo _sat_ there, pretending to be the master of his own land, when he was just a whipping boy for the Emperor. So, as the hours progressed, Jaskier did what he did best and began to serenade his captors with his own patriotism.

> _“Almost heaven, west Redania,  
>  Kes-trel Mountains, along the Pontar River,  
>  Life is old there, older than the trees,  
>  Younger than the mountains, blowing like a breeze!_
> 
> _Country roads, take me home,_  
>  _To the place I belong,_  
>  _West Redania, mountain mama,_  
>  _Take me ho-o-ome!”_

It took roughly a day of similar anthems for his guards to complain, and then he was _blessed_ with a visit from Luca. They bound Jaskier’s hands to the middle of the writing desk, and the Nilfgaardian operative huffed a quiet sigh as he lowered himself into the chair opposite. “Jaskier, the singing must stop,” he paused. “You will do plenty of another kind in a day’s time.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier clenched his teeth, forced the fear very, _very_ deep and met Luca’s dark eyes. “Then I think I shall continue.”

“I do not advise it,” Luca looked somewhat sad, but Jaskier knew this to be an act. “The guards are quite irate. They have requested I cut out your tongue first, but I have told them I need it for the time being. I had to make them a promise to still their tempers.”

“Oh?” A quirked eyebrow.

“Yes. If the singing continues, I promised that, when I am finished with our discussions, I will allow them to watch me perform a... verrader stropdas, forgive me, I do not know the Common.” He lifted his hand to his throat, fingers flickering and pinching to indicate what he meant. _Oh, he knew the Common_. He was doing it to watch Jaskier’s expression fall in recognition, to watch the hope begin to fade from his eyes.

“A traitor’s neck-tie,” the bard murmured it quietly, and his fingers curled into his palms. The moment of silence hung between them. “Quite a morbid bunch you have there.” They wished to slit Jaskier’s throat and pull his tongue through the wound while he was still alive; a punishment used for traitors that spilled state secrets. For all Nilfgaard’s pretence of nobility, they really were a cruel and brutal empire. “I suppose I could be quieter.”

“Excellent,” Luca smiled tightly, hands drumming on the table. “I will see you in a day’s time. And then our discussions can begin without that irritating treaty hanging over us.”

“I look forward to it.” Jaskier replied with his brightest smile. Only when the door was locked, the footsteps faded and the silence heavy, did Jaskier allow himself to breathe and shake. A single tear escaped the corner of his eye, but he wiped it away with his shoulder. They would leave him bound to the centre of the table for a few hours to make their point, before he would be allowed to sleep. Perhaps for the last time if the intelligence reports about Nilfgaardian interrogation techniques he’d seen previously had any truth to them. _He would not break._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aanvoerder is a word for "commander/captain" in Dutch. It's the closest language to Nilfgaardian, so I substituted it in.
> 
> Gvaedyn is "tenacious one" in Nilfgaardian. A compliment.
> 
> "Somne" is a lesser known Witcher sign that appears in "Season of Storms"; it puts people to sleep and makes them open to suggestion.
> 
> Jaskier sings a slightly amended (read: butchered) version of Country Roads by John Denver to piss off his captors.


	28. Break

“I’ll stay here,” Vesemir indicated the university behind him and then folded his arms. “I’m concerned that word of your arrival might get ahead of you, if it hasn’t already. I’ll also ensure Jaskier has a positive reception when he returns. This'll be the safest place for him.”

The horses were ready for them when they returned to the stables. The owner readily accepted one of the cobs, in addition to a handful of coins, in exchange for one of his herd. It was exhausted, but after some rest and feed, the cob could be sold on for a fair price. Eskel and Lambert watched from the edge of the paddock as Geralt walked down a line of horses tied to hitching posts at its edge. Swift and efficient, he considered each animal in turn, running his hand over their flanks and down their backs. A few he got as far as their heads, pulling them by the halter until they looked down into his eyes; he dismissed each as they tossed their manes and shivered at his touch. It wasn’t until he got to the very end that the stablehand stepped in, “Oh, you won’t want that’un, Witcher. She’ll throw you soon as look at you. We’ve tried to breed her three times; she kicked two and gelded one.” The warning was not born from any concern for Geralt’s safety, but a fear that an angry Witcher would return to exact vengeance if sold a lively, uncontrollable horse.

Geralt approached the brown mare and ran his palm down her neck to her shoulder; she had three white socks, a white star in the centre of her face and a well-rounded, muscular build. _So far so good_. He checked her back and each of her hooves, his hand never far from her skin so that she knew where he was. When he returned to her head, he pulled her face down to his and she stared, ears flicking backwards and forwards as she considered him. _Evaluating_. Eyes bright, ears and nostrils clear, all good signs. “Hmm,” he tilted his head, and stroked her velvety nose with the backs of his fingers. When her mouth began to wiggle in an attempt to search for whatever treat he was about to provide, he nodded and patted her neck, “Roach.” 

The stablehand barely managed to catch the pouch of coins tossed at him, and within twenty minutes, _Roach_ was saddled and ready to go. She fussed a little when the saddlebags dropped too low on her flanks, but otherwise settled quite happily beside Scorpion and Lambert’s bay; he should really think about naming her. “Right, let’s go fuck up some Nilfgaardians.” Lambert led the way out the gates.

***

Jaskier woke to the door scraping open and heavy, military footfalls. Four sets in total, he wagered. Luca and two Nilfgaardian soldiers entered without ceremony and Jaskier blinked blearily from the bed, before he was hauled into the chair. “Good morning. I like my eggs sunny side up.” He murmured, managing to rub his fingers into his eyes before they were yanked away and fastened loosely to the centre of the desk.

“No eggs this morning, Jaskier,” Luca said, quietly. He pulled a pot of ink, a pen and a piece of parchment from his cloak and placed them down on the table. “I have it on good authority that you are quite the composer.”

“The best on the Continent,” Jaskier smirked, but his gaze hadn’t lifted from the materials presented to him. “Valdo Marx is well and truly old news.”

“This is your only opportunity,” Luca continued, “We can talk for a few hours about the time you spent in Nilfgaard during the war, and then you can spend the remaining week of your life writing your songs and singing like a little lark. You will be executed, of course. But your final days will be spent doing what you love.”

Jaskier’s jaw clenched. It sounded so very bitter coming from the mouth of anyone else. _Little lark_. He would need Geralt to scrub that tone from his soul. “And what is my second option?”

“I am afraid it is quite unpleasant. And it will go on as long as I want it too. It will last more than a week, a month, a year. I am very good at my job, Jaskier. Very good,” he paused. “I must ask you to make a decision.” 

The silence hung heavily, broken only briefly when one of the soldiers shifted his stance and his chainmail rattled quietly against his breastplate. Jaskier leaned forward onto his elbows, “You may have a Cintran noble at your beck and call, but I will not be the first Redanian one to bend a knee to Nilfgaard. Please proceed as you see fit.”

Luca sighed and, to his credit, it sounded like genuine regret. “Very well,” he rose to his feet and indicated to the soldiers with an errant flick of the hand. They surged forward and yanked Jaskier to his feet, transferring his hands behind his back, pulling the restraints tight. “Haxo. You may have your five minutes. Do not hit the face, please. Swollen mouths cannot talk.”

Jaskier heaved a deep sigh as young Sebastian Haxo stepped into his cell, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows and a smug little smirk that Jaskier really wanted to smack off his face. _Should definitely have just decked him._ The first punch hit Jaskier in the stomach, and he hunched over as much as the two men gripping his arms would allow. They soon pulled him straight, and he smirked right back. The next one landed a little lower, and the third hit him squarely in the balls. _Oh, fuck…_ Wheezing, he allowed himself to hang briefly as the stars blotched his vision, before lifting back to his full height again. “Did your wet nurse teach you how to punch?” 

“You won’t be so mouthy when he’s finished with you. I’ve heard he’s flayed every inch of skin off a man and managed to keep him alive through it all,” Sebastian spat in Jaskier’s face, and the bard grimaced. So did Luca; Jaskier saw the distaste twist itself across the Nilfgaardian’s face. They had a very strict code of chivalry and conduct. Luca would find Sebastian detestable. Probably Lord Haxo too.

“Please keep your venereal diseases to you--.” _There was the hit to the face._ It cut across his jaw and he felt the rings on Sebastian’s fist cut through his lower lip. The triumphant smirk on the lordling’s face didn’t last very long, because Luca snagged him by the shoulder of his doublet and hauled him against the wall. Winded, Sebastian looked horrified as the Nilfgaardian operative pinned him with a single hand and a dangerous glare.

“Did you not hear my order? Or are you simply as thick as your father?” Luca growled. It was the first time Jaskier had seen him lose his temper other than his own attempt to shred his uniform. “Get out. If I see you anywhere near this room, then I will show you exactly how I kept that man alive, are we clear?” Sebastian mumbled, but that wasn’t enough for Luca; he shoved him back against the wall. “Speak, boy.” 

“Yes, Luca… sir.” He scarpered as soon as the Nilfgaardian let him go, and the soldiers shoved Jaskier to the back of the room. The efficiency with which they removed the furniture was fairly impressive, leaving behind only a single chair in the corner of the room. When they re-entered, they carried handfuls of rope and a long wooden plank.

“If you’re into this kind of thing, you really didn’t need to bring me all this way.” Jaskier managed a smirk, but he couldn’t hide his trepidation as the soldiers forced him down into a crouch. They bent his arms back over the plank so that the front of his elbows pulled it to his back, and then they bound his arms and hands in place. Another rope wrapped around his legs to keep his calves pinned to his thighs as he crouched with them almost parallel to the ground. They secured the whole lot to a rung in the floor that had been previously obscured by the writing desk. There was no give for him to move out of position. “I have to admit, Luca. I was expecting a lot more blood.”

The Nilfgaardian lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “I am a professional.” One of the soldiers disappeared just outside the door and returned with a full waterskin. It was fastened to the ceiling from a hook above Jaskier’s head, and immediately he felt the first drop of ice cold water hit his scalp. Luca crouched by Jaskier with a gag and blindfold in his hand. “Because I quite like you, I will give you one final chance, Jaskier of Redania. Do you wish to tell me what I want to know without any further unpleasantness?”

The bard huffed a sigh. “Any other time, dear Luca, and I’d have given you the best night of your life. You’re quite the dashing gentleman spymaster.” The blindfold was tight and every time he inhaled, fibres of the gag found their way down their throat. _This wasn’t so bad._ He’d crouched for hours in cupboards hiding from husbands and then there was that time with Emhyr… oh for-, _that was what got you into this mess in the first place._ Deep breaths. The Nilfgaardians left, but the door did not close.

He heard Luca give his orders, “If he falls, pull him back up. He does not sleep, he does not eat, and he does not relieve himself. No talking. No sound of any kind. Hael Ker'zaer!” The soldiers barked it back, their fists thumping their breastplates, and then fell into place. Perhaps outside the door. It was still open. It didn’t matter, Jaskier couldn’t move his legs, or feel them now actually… already. The water was cold. It sent shocks down his spine every time it hit his scalp. _Not too bad._

At first.

His legs began to burn after a while, then his shoulders as they protested their unnatural position. Hours went by. He lost count. He was sure it was hours. Was it a day yet? _Drip._ Fuck. Every time. It got him every time. He should expect it, but it wasn’t dripping _evenly_ and - _drip -_ fuck! The first time he fell, the Nilfgaardians swooped into the room and hauled him up by the shoulders. He groaned in protest, but they kept pushing him into position until he stayed there. Then silence again. Apart from - _drip_. The shock pulsed through the muscles of his shoulders and back in a wave of agony, aggravating exhausted joints.

_A day went by._

Jaskier kept falling. _Drip._ They kept hauling him up. Eventually he began to shake - _drip_ \- and then he couldn’t stop the sounds of pain clawing from his throat. He fell - _drip -_ asleep. They forced him back into wakefulness and placed him back into position. _Drip._

_Was this the third or fourth day?_

Sleep. Just stay upright. _Drip._ Sleep, but stay upright. They won’t notice. _Drip._ They pulled him from the floor and sat him under the water again. _They refilled the water_. They must have… but when…? The pain was all consuming. Constant burn. Eventually they didn’t need to even make him stay on his feet, they just sat him there. _Drip._ His mind couldn’t hold a single thought. _Drip._ Just the pain. And the water. Constant. _Drip._

_Don’t break. Think of Eskel and his beautiful voice. Think of Geralt and his eye crinkles. Think of Lambert and his jokes. Think of Vesemir and the way he looks at his sons. Don’t break. Don’t break._

_Drip._

Jaskier screamed.

***

The Witchers made quick work of the rest of Redania and broke into Temeria as the sun rose on the second day. The horses needed rest and water, so they camped out for two hours on the banks of the Ismena, not far from White Orchard. Geralt pulled the book from his gambeson and tapped Eskel on the shoulder with its spine. 

Eskel looked up from sorting through a saddlebag, and took it mutely. “What is--?” He turned the volume over until he could read the gold leaf on the front. “Did you take this from the university?” Slightly more high-pitched than he intended, regarding Geralt with a mixture of reproach and adoration. It was an odd combination, and Geralt decided it made him look very... sweet. Probably not an adjective Eskel would like to hear in reference to himself. _Very kissable, perhaps._ They could sort it later.

“Mmhm. It was covered in dust in the Dean’s office. Not touched in years. I thought you might appreciate it more than he did.” Geralt nudged Roach’s nose down towards the river; she was still deciding whether she trusted him. “Jaskier isn’t the only one who enjoys beautiful things.” 

Eskel could only stare when he realised there were too many facets to that comment to consider, and opened the book to the first poem. “Thank you.”

Geralt nodded, and Eskel spotted the smile before he turned away to grab some bread to wolf down. Jaskier was right. Someone really did put the sun behind Geralt’s eyes. 

***

“P-please, Luca, I…”

“There, there, sit up, let me see you,” Luca crouched beside Jaskier, propping him up against his knee. A relief. The gag and the blindfold were removed, and the water stopped. “Jaskier, Jaskier, you look awful, dear friend. Let me wipe away these tears.” The Nilfgaardian pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped Jaskier’s face almost tenderly. When he was finished, he took Jaskier’s chin and tilted it up so that their eyes met. “You know, this can all stop. You just need to tell me what else you heard. You will have your bed, hot food, I am certain I can even find you a lute.”

The brief reprieve allowed some of Jaskier’s thoughts to return. He huffed in huge lungfuls of air as he looked wildly around the room for a sense of reality. The two soldiers were present. He couldn’t see their faces, shielded by their helmets, but they were definitely _there._ His mind had started _making noises_ . He was sure of it. Wolves and… he was certain he’d heard the ticking purr of a kikimora. Awful things. _It would be so easy to just…_ Luca was so nice. _Cold. He was so cold_ . His skin felt like ice. He smelt fresh and good. He was offering comfort. Redania. What had Redania _ever_ done for him? Luca. Now _Luca_ was offering to _help._ He was--

_We will burn your Witchers in their courtyard. Like the fanatics did their brothers._

Jaskier’s face hardened, and he grated out his next sentence through clenched teeth, eyes miserable. “I will take my chances with the water.”

Luca considered him for a long moment, and then rose with a deep sigh. Jaskier almost whimpered at the loss of his proximity. “This will wear you down, Jaskier. Would you like to know why?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“Certainly,” Luca gestured to the Nilfgaardian soldiers, who hauled Jaskier to his feet and lashed the third rope around the wooden plank beneath his arms. One stood on a chair to fasten it around the hook on the ceiling until Jaskier could feel the tension pulling up in his shoulders. “I did my research while you were wintering at Kaer Morhen,” Jaskier felt Luca’s hand on his palm very briefly, “I like to get to know my targets better than they know themselves, and I realised something very quickly as I followed your path of self-destruction,” Luca walked to the open door and met Jaskier’s eye, the blindfold seconds from being replaced, “I can inflict no more pain than _you_ already have. So, there was only one alternative.” The blindfold fastened behind his head, and the gag forced its way into his mouth despite his best efforts to keep his jaw clenched. “I must force you back into your own head, where you can set about torturing yourself. You are very good at it.”

Luca’s footsteps retreated, and Jaskier sobbed.

***

“You fat _fuck._ ” Lambert snarled as he hefted Geralt up onto the perimeter wall. It wasn’t really that much effort. Eskel was next, and then Lambert used a nearby tree trunk to rebound from and scale the height with a swift bit of athleticism. “What are we seeing, ladies?”

“From what I saw ‘round the back, there’s a basement level, but no other way directly into it that isn’t heavily guarded at all times,” Eskel murmured. “Guard rotations are every six hours. A mixture of Cintran and Nilfgaardian soldiers.”

“No more than about twenty on site. This isn’t a high priority target. Majority will be in Cintra,” Geralt tilted his head as he inspected the windows. Most of them were dimly lit by candles and fireplaces on the inside. The occupants were waking up for the day. “I heard a conversation between two servants as they headed home, about the wretched creature in the basement. It has to be Jaskier.”

“Wretched,” Lambert growled. “If they’ve hurt him, I’m gunna’...”

“There’ll be a line, Lambert,” Eskel replied softly. “He’s still alive. That’s… I was worried that we would be too late.” It had taken them six days of hard riding to get here, and the sun was about to rise. They would wait until nightfall to gain the advantage. It was not an arrangement that Eskel was happy with, but both Geralt and Lambert had managed to reason that three _living_ Witchers were more useful to Jaskier than three _dead_ ones. In the dark, they would have a clear advantage over their human adversaries.

“Servant’s entrance is the best bet. There’s a gap in the guard rotation. Low, easy access to lower floors and probably the basement too,” Geralt craned his neck ever so slightly as a guard disappeared around a corner of the house. “It will be a skeleton staff and we can use Axii to make them leave without a fuss.”

Together they dropped from the wall and sat down to prepare. The thicket they currently occupied was dense enough to shield the horses from view, but they didn’t light a fire. Lambert had his back to them, and continued building the dancing star bombs - the many, _many_ dancing star bombs - he intended to take in with him. Eskel finished with the whetstone and chucked it into his saddlebag, shuffled through his potions and did a bit of pacing until Geralt yanked him down onto the floor and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. “Nearly there. As soon as the sun sets, we’re going in.”

Eskel sighed. “We need to make an agreement here and now,” Lambert stopped and looked over his shoulder, Geralt tilted his head to listen. “Whatever happens in that house tonight. It doesn’t reach Vesemir. Not ever.”

Lambert and Geralt exchanged a glance, and then both murmured, “Agreed,” more or less at the same time.

“Good. Lambert, listen closely.”

***

“You said he would’ve _broken_ by now,” Haxo snarled. There was nothing he detested more than having Nilfgaardian soldiers in his home. Well. Other than the little rat currently occupying one of his basement rooms. “Draw blood. Break his fingers. Do _something._ ”

Luca didn’t look up from where he was carefully sewing a fresh insignia onto his uniform. The sun had set barely half an hour before, and he would head down soon to check whether Jaskier was in the mood to speak with him. Luca would sit there, talk, and listen to him whimper and beg for it to stop. It had become a nightly ritual. “He would bleed out before he told us anything,” he tilted the gambeson away from him and inspected the needlework. It would pass inspection. “I have been doing this for a very long time. I know my trade.” 

“When the Emperor sent you, I expected…” Haxo waved his hand noncommittally, but Luca was already looking at him, head cocked to the side for an answer. “I expected someone a bit more bloodthirsty. A bit more intimidating.” Luca rose to his feet slowly and approached Haxo with a slow, deliberate gait. The old lord backed up until his back hit the wall and Luca’s face was mere inches from his.

“I find that too much bluster often covers inadequacy in one’s position,” Luca’s voice low, barely a whisper. “My adequacy has never been called into question. Has yours?”

Haxo didn’t get to answer, because something caught Luca’s eye outside. Movement. He walked up to the window and squinted into the inky blackness of the grounds. “Did you give your servants leave to take the evening off?”

“Of course not. Why?” Blustered.

Luca turned stiffly and marched through the study door. “Lock this behind you, please.”

***

Geralt held onto the soldier’s face as he fitted and kicked, and then with a swift jerk of the shoulders snapped his neck. The body was easy enough to conceal behind a heavy set of curtains nearby and they continued on with silent footfalls. Every now and then, Lambert would tug one of his dancing star bombs from the satchel on his back and tuck it under a suit of armour, or behind a tapestry.

They found the entry to the basement as Geralt predicted. The servants always needed access to cold storage areas. No alarm had been raised, and they encountered two more soldiers on their way down. Disturbed by the sound of footsteps they did not expect. Eskel cast Axii to bring them under his thrall and then rammed his hunting knife up beneath the helmet of the first; he was still gurgling as Lambert dispatched the other. 

The soft whimper that followed turned all three heads. Eskel ducked through an open door towards it and the sight would haunt him for years. Jaskier was hanging limply from a single plank of wood passed through his arms, bending his elbows backwards. His legs were shaking, his hair plastered to his head with sweat, old bruising on his face; clothes filthy and skin sickly pale. 

The moment Geralt cut through the suspending rope, Jaskier fell into Eskel’s arms. He reeked of sweat, piss and fear, and Eskel clutched him close to his chest. “Jaskier, can you speak?” The bard flopped over with some hidden strength; cracked lips parted, and blue eyes squinted… then softened.

“I knew you’d come,” Jaskier’s head tilted back to Geralt, and then to the side for Lambert, “knew you wouldn’t leave me.”

“Never,” Eskel pressed his lips to the clammy forehead at his chest, “We’re going to get you out of here. You’re going on Lambert’s back. You need to hold on.”

Jaskier smiled weakly. “Mmm. Not how I wanted to mount Lambert for the first time, but it’ll do.”

“We get through this, buttercup, I’ll bend over, touch my toes and you can have at it,” Lambert grumbled as he crouched down and Eskel placed Jaskier’s frail form over his back. “But you need to hold on like it’s Eskel’s cock in your hands, alright?” He pulled Jaskier’s arms over his shoulders and helped him wrap them across his gambeson, satchel adjusted over onto his hips so he could still access his little arsenal. Without his swords, he had to trust in Eskel, Geralt and the hunting knife stashed in his belt. Could always shove a dancing star bomb up their ass, but that would start the fireworks a little too early.

Back in the hallway at the top of the stairs, they ran into their first hurdle. Shouts echoed from the servant quarters, accompanied by the well-drilled drum of military footfalls. “So much for a swift exit. Out the front. It’s the only way.” They ran into a handful of soldiers as they ascended another set of stairs; Lambert ducked to the side as heavy, armoured bodies thundered down past him. His left hand gripped onto Jaskier’s folded forearms to keep him in place, and his right emptied his satchel sporadically as they progressed.

Eskel and Geralt were brutal and systematic. Between them, each soldier lasted only a handful of parries before advanced speed and agility overpowered them. Lambert had never seen Eskel fight with such vengeful savagery. Blood sprayed his face and neck, dripping down the length of the sword in his hand until it began to coat his fingers at the hilt. Lambert found it extremely… _good_ , he liked it a lot. _A lot._

At some point, Geralt took a slice across his bicep, and Eskel one across the thigh, but they were minor wounds compared to the casualties they claimed in return. By the time they broke into the entrance hall, only five soldiers stood between them and the exit, with six in their wake. They surged forward as one and Lambert had to backtrack quickly up the sweeping staircase behind him, knocking one assailant away with an Aard that sent him cartwheeling over the banister with a sickening crack. More would soon be flooding in from the surrounding grounds to reinforce the fallen combatants. They needed to get out. Quickly.

“Ffft, Lambert… that’s Luca,” Jaskier murmured, his eyes lidded as he clung to consciousness. He could see the Nilfgaardian striding down the stairs. “Took me. From Kaer Morhen.” Said Nilfgaardian had a longsword in his hand, and Lambert hopped over the banister. Jaskier whimpered as the landing jostled aching joints, but gripped tighter. He watched as Eskel’s Quen shield shattered and sent an armoured figure staggering back, swiftly dealt with by Geralt who jammed his sword through his throat. Three to go. Plus the demon spymaster up there.

“Lambert!” Geralt had managed to cut an opening into the grounds, fending off a wild, downward swing for his head, and Lambert dashed for it, chucking the remaining unignited dancing star bombs into nearby rooms as he went. 

Retreating at the rear as Lambert and Geralt sprinted out onto the grass, Eskel stopped at the top of the stairs. An unarmoured Nilfgaardian stood in the centre of the entrance hall, glancing around him at the carnage with a calm, untroubled countenance. 

“It seems I underestimated Jaskier after all,” his dark eyes bore into Eskel, and the Witcher felt the heat leave his bones. His medallion remained inert, but there was something not entirely _human_ about the man in front of him. Even his smell was slightly off. “I did not expect an army of Witchers to follow him so diligently. There must be more to his tale than I discovered.”

Eskel smirked and lifted his left hand. The fire seemed to emanate from his eyes and his palm as his fingers crooked in Igni, building even before he cast. “Hmm,” he inhaled a deep breath. “Never underestimate the power of a bard.” 

The inferno swept from Eskel like hellfire; angry, righteous, vengeful. Rolling flame billowed through the halls and ignited the first of Lambert’s scattered dancing star bombs, setting off a devastating chain reaction. The resulting incendiary wave flooded through the house and blew out the windows as it progressed, engulfing the bodies of dead and living alike. 

Eskel turned away once the fire had consumed Luca; the Nilfgaardian didn’t even scream. The worst type of evil often hid behind a banal exterior. Those dark eyes stared at Eskel even as they vanished behind a wall of orange and red. Sword returned to its sheath, Eskel walked calmly into the night to find his family as his enemies burned to ashes behind him.

Lord Haxo watched the Witchers fade into the darkness from his study window as his home was consumed beneath him. There would be nothing left to explain the destruction. No one to send troops after the escaping prisoner. Emhyr would write this off as an unwieldy asset taken off his hands. For the first time since the end of the war, Haxo regretted not burning with Cintra.


	29. Ancient Bards

Jaskier wasn’t going to make it all the way to Oxenfurt in one go. Eskel had to keep an arm around the bard’s waist as they fled Cintra, and anything more than a trot jarred him until he was quietly sobbing in pain. He needed time to build his strength for the rest of the journey. There was one place nearby where Jaskier would be safe, because not even Emhyr dared breach its borders. It was a risk. Even more so when Geralt scowled in frustration, unable to remember anything about his time or acquaintances there. _Brokilon._

Once they crossed the Yaruga, Eskel began to breathe a little easier. Although Verden had been a vassal state of Nilfgaard until recently, it was now an independent kingdom, and guarded that freedom fiercely. There were no Nilfgaardian garrisons for miles. Rather than head to Craag An, Eskel guided them east towards the Ribbon. Closer to the border of Temeria and the sanctity of the Owl Hills should they need to disappear quickly.

Jaskier remembered nothing of the journey. Only the relentless jarring gait of Scorpion below him and the resulting stabs of pain through exhausted muscles and joints. A young man he was not, but he had never felt his age more acutely than in those passing hours. When they stopped, he fell off the saddle into Eskel’s arms and slipped into the hazy space between sleep and wakefulness.

Useless limbs flopped around as soiled clothes were removed. A scream clawed from his throat when cold water touched his skin. Hands pawing at sharp buckles and armour to get away. Strong hands and the low purr of deep voices. Warmer water against his skin; his face, his torso, his hands. They washed every part of him with gentle reverence. Checking that he was all still there. Nothing had faded. Nothing had marked. The taste of fresh water. More water. _So thirsty_. Some bread that he choked on and promptly vomited back up. The warmth of a thick cloak with a familiar scent. The cushion of soft grass overlayed with a bedroll. The crackle of a fire. Familiar shapes wandering around at the edges of his vision. 

_Sleep._

Waking again was difficult. Like he was climbing out of a deep, warm pit of pillows and blankets; there was nothing to use as leverage and so he kept falling back in. _Too comfortable._ He focused on the sound of breathing behind him, a warm chest pressed to his back; deep, even. A large hand splayed out on his stomach over the cloak to keep him close, and as he shifted his head it bumped against a thick bicep. He didn’t open his eyes, but his snuffling and twitching alerted the man behind him. “Welcome back.” A soft voice, low and familiar.

“Geralt,” Jaskier croaked, his eyes felt sticky as they opened and he extracted an arm from the trappings of the blanket - no, cloak - around him. As his vision cleared, he looked up to the full green canopy above. “Where are we?” The high afternoon sun dappled the clearing with soft pools of light and glistened over the undulating surface of the waterfall as it cascaded over uneven rocks; a million fluid crystals in silken blue. _Beautiful._

“Ceann Treisse. Brokilon.” Geralt made no effort to move, if anything his hand tugged Jaskier a little closer, his other propping his head up so that he could watch the bard slowly come back to himself. There were some vague images in the back of his mind, and a dull, distant ache in his leg linked to this place, but Geralt really couldn’t muster the focus to drill down into it. Every thought was consumed by the safety of the three people around him.

“Is--, why am I naked?” Jaskier shifted his hips and found a _draught_ somewhere there really shouldn’t be and quickly shuffled backwards under the cloak again. Legs and arms leaden, he knew he should feel something salacious tucked up against Geralt like this, a scenario he had dreamed about for _years_. The bountiful plains of muscle and raw power nestled up to his back. But in the place of unbridled lust, he just felt comfortable, warm and safe. _Just._ Hardly. Those feelings were so much more precious to him right now. _Safe. With Geralt._

“You were in bad shape. We cleaned you up. Clothes will be dry soon. Lambert wanted to burn them, but we convinced him to wash them instead,” Geralt shifted the cloak carefully as Jaskier’s knee appeared again, and leaned up to tuck it snugly beneath his legs. “You haven’t been asleep for very long.”

“Lambert hates laundry.” 

“Yes. He only bitched for most of it.” _But he did it._

“Hmm, Bitcher,” Jaskier chuckled - _add that one alongside Switcher and think of something for Geralt later -_ and then flinched as his shoulders reminded him of just how much abuse they’d dealt with in recent days with a spiteful twinge. “Eskel?” 

“In the river.” Geralt tucked two fingers beneath Jaskier’s chin and tilted his head up a fraction so that he could see a familiar broad back and mop of black hair. Eskel was furiously scrubbing at his skin, and occasionally ducked forward to submerge himself in the water. “He says he doesn’t feel clean yet.” 

There was something in his tone that made Jaskier look up. Geralt was enjoying the view, but there was a shade of concern. Jaskier shifted to try and get a better look at his face, but only succeeded in admiring the underside of Geralt’s chin; the way snowy white hair fell past his stubbled jaw, the chain of his medallion slanting across his collarbone. “Not that you’re complaining, clearly. What do you mean he doesn’t feel clean?”

“Hmm. No.” An eyebrow raised and he tucked his chin down to his chest to study the two blue eyes blinking up at him. “We’ll talk about it later. Get some sleep.”

Jaskier fought to stay awake, but it was like his body was looking for any excuse to fold back into sleep; the moment that big arm tucked around him and they lowered back to the bedroll, the bard fell back into the turbulent sea of his dreams. He would survive them of course, because Geralt anchored him to the shore.

***

“No, no, no!” Jaskier startled awake. For a terrifying moment, he believed he was still blindfolded, because he could see only darkness. _Suffocating_. He kicked at the confines of the cloak, hands scrabbling towards his face to pull the fabric free from where it had fallen over his head. Panting and covered in a thin film of sweat, he thrashed until he felt the rush of cool air across his skin and saw the warm illumination of the fire nearby.

“Easy, Jaskier,” Lambert’s palm alighted on his forehead and pushed the hair back from his face. “You’re all good. Look up.” He rolled Jaskier onto his back and tilted his head back to look up at the sky. The moon was full and loomed big in a quilt of star-dappled midnight; cavernous and eternal. Endless sprawling space that he could stretch into and never find limitation. _Calm. Free._ Jaskier sucked in a deep lungful of air through his nose and puffed it out through damp lips. Lambert stroked back through Jaskier’s hair until he calmed, and then lifted his hand away, “There you go.”

“Sorry, I - I’m not… I thought I was still -,” Jaskier glanced down his chest, realising he was still completely naked he tried to gather the cloak back over his body. His hands were batted away and a heavy palm pushed down on his chest momentarily to keep him still.

“Don’t apologise. You’ve been through some shit. And I’ve also seen your cock, so you can cut that shit out as well,” the swish of liquid moving inside a bottle, and Jaskier tilted his head to watch Lambert take a swig of beer. He always kept at least three bottles of dwarven brew in his bags for special occasions. Jaskier, alive and safe, counted. “Let it all hang free if it feels better, buttercup. No one’s judging.”

“Are the others - ?”

“Dinner. I told them if I had to eat anymore cured meat, I’d lose my shit and start gnawing on one of the horses or you, whichever put up less of a fight,” he cast Jaskier a sneaky little side-eye with a raised brow. “Probably the horses by the sounds of it.” _A compliment._ Jaskier tilted his head so it rested against Lambert’s thigh.

“You left your swords behind and carried me out on your back,” he murmured. “And you did my laundry.” Statements of fact. Jaskier wanted to say thank you, to hug Lambert to his chest and place kisses all over his face, but he barely had the energy to speak, let alone _move._

“Well, you weren’t walking out, and you stank worse than the gutter outside a whorehouse, so,” Lambert shrugged, head tilted back against the tree behind him as he studied the open sky. “You think you’re gunna’ be alright?” He glanced down again. “Because, you know, if you’re not, those two will be shit to live with, and I could do without that kinda’ crap every winter.”

Jaskier smiled and followed Lambert’s eyes to the sky. He recalled Eskel’s advice; _with Lambert, ignore his words, focus on his actions and his eyes._ Those golden eyes were full of anxiety and Jaskier saw it every time they glanced down, searching, confirming. Lambert had abandoned his swords to carry Jaskier out of that house, and he was currently choosing to sit as close as he could, rather than at the other end of the camp with his packs. Combined, it all said more about the wolf’s true feelings than a thousand words ever could. 

Jaskier spoke softly, “I think so, I -,” he paused. “I think I would’ve preferred whips and thumbscrews. I’ve never felt more -,” he couldn’t find the words; Jaskier, bard and poet extraordinaire, couldn’t find the vocabulary to describe the agony of what he’d endured, “that, I’ve never felt that. I keep - it keeps coming back.”

“Sometimes the pain in here,” Lambert tapped his own temple, “is harder to overcome than anything else. But you will. You’ve dealt with worse. Watched you do it.” When the bard began to shiver, Lambert leaned forward and pulled the cloak back over, but left it loosely draped rather than tucked in. “You should sleep more. We’ll wake you for some food. Don’t worry, I’ll uh… I’ll make sure you’re alright.”

As Jaskier allowed his eyes to close and his consciousness to slip back into darkness, he was certain he could hear a familiar tune hummed in sporadic phrases between swigs of beer. The warm glow of the words that accompanied that melody, bellowed out originally in the cavernous space of Kaer Morhen’s grand hall to an angry, uncertain Witcher tucked high in the rafters, illuminated the darkest recesses of Jaskier’s mind. _Even if the skies get rough, I'm giving you all my love, I'm still looking up…_

***

The smell of cooking meat roused Jaskier the third time. His limbs still felt stiff and heavy, but he had enough strength to push himself up onto his elbows to peer at the fire. Several pieces of dark meat, crisp and ready, were rotating on a spit over the flame. Three faces turned towards him instantly, and Eskel uncurled to his feet to drop down again at Jaskier’s side. “How’re you doing? Think you can eat something?”

“If you were in charge of seasoning and cooking that, then I’ll take the whole thing, thank you very much,” Jaskier grinned and slowly sat up. With Eskel propping him up like a very attractive armchair, Jaskier was able to sit by the fire with his legs sprawled out in front of him. A double-heaped ration tin was placed in Eskel’s hands, and the Witcher hovered it over Jaskier’s lap. When he went to help though, the bard huffed and batted at him, “I can feed myself. Stop mother-henning.” Affectionately said, of course, and Jaskier nuzzled his head under Eskel’s chin before he picked up one of the smaller slices of meat. Venison. What a treat.

“Slowly,” Eskel chided as Jaskier wolfed down the first bit without chewing, and then proceeded to cough and splutter. “You couldn’t keep down a mouthful of bread yesterday.” The gurgle of Jaskier’s stomach sounded threatening, but everything held, and the bard helped himself tentatively to another piece. Eskel held the plate and ate his fill over Jaskier’s shoulder, pausing now and then to watch for signs of discomfort. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever tasted a deer this good,” Jaskier patted his now swollen stomach as his head fell back against Eskel’s shoulder. “Worried I was never going to enjoy your cooking again back there.” He accepted the skin of water pressed to his lips and drank until he could feel it rising in the back of his throat. Geralt cleared away the remains of the uneaten food, and Lambert piled more wood onto the fire. Eskel held Jaskier close, chin resting on his shoulder and legs crowded in at the side. The bard could feel the unhappy tension humming beneath Eskel’s skin, and lifted his hands from his lap to rest over the forearms enfolding his chest. “It’s alright. I’m here. You got me back.”

Eskel said nothing, only turned his head so that his face was buried in the side of Jaskier’s neck, ashamed that Jaskier felt the need to try and comfort _him_ , while still weak and broken. The fire burned higher and the others approached. Geralt held the book of elven poetry in his hand and tapped it on the top of Eskel’s head until one big hand lifted to take it. “I’m not sure I’m -.”

Geralt grunted as he dropped down behind him, wedged between the Witcher and a large oak tree. His chin settled on Eskel’s shoulder and his arms wormed their way around his sides to settle lightly at Jaskier’s waist. “Don’t care. I am. Jaskier will like them too.”

“Like what?” Ears perked, Jaskier shuffled more upright as Eskel opened the book in front of his stomach. “Elder Speech,” but he could recognise stanzas and verses from a country mile away, “poems. This is… elven poetry, isn’t it? Can you understand this?” 

Eskel could hear the shade of excitement in Jaskier’s voice, and he smiled, tension easing. “I can. Would you like to hear some?”

“Please. This one.”

“Hmm. _Light._ Give me a moment,” Eskel scanned the page to check for unfamiliar phrasing before he began. “Have you felt a void numbing your soul? And lit a candle just to watch it burn? The flame dances but outside of this stage, shadows creep. Every day I fight to stay in the light, I endure the darkness, 'cause it shows me the stars. And I vow to keep on spreading the light, 'til the day I die.”

Jaskier tilted his head against Eskel’s chin, with a soft smile. “Sounds like they had you three in mind when they were composing. Ancient bards immortalising the true purpose of a Witcher.”

Lambert dropped down with a loud sigh and rested his head in Jaskier’s lap, immediately closing his eyes when slender fingers began to scratch their way gently across his scalp. He huffed irritably when Eskel sat in silence, “The bard likes it, you big oaf. Read.” Geralt gave an encouraging squeeze of Eskel’s hips with his legs, because the man in question was too busy staring down at Jaskier with a look of wonder.

“Right, sorry,” Eskel cleared his throat and scanned back down the page for the next verse. “When I find myself in doubt I look within, and watch my virtues tame their own reverse. They're in balance but it's up to me, to tip the scale--.” Geralt moved his hands back and nestled his fingers beneath the hem of Eskel’s shirt to circle gently across his skin, eyes sliding closed as he listened.

Enveloped by the warmth and the love of his Witchers, Jaskier eventually drifted off to sleep. Eskel’s deep timber followed him there, but instead of pain, silence and tears, his mind conjured epic battles fought by gallant knights in gleaming silver armour, fair elven maidens in silken robes bestowing favours upon lovesick suitors, and impish fae playing in magical forests. He did not fear the spectres of his nightmares. His dreams were safe. Because noble warriors with eyes of golden ichor fought back the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eskel reads:
> 
> [Light](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nSQJlp5RQqg) Ancient Bards 4:46


	30. Drunk on You (E)

The embrace Jaskier received from Vesemir the moment he stepped across the threshold into his university quarters was unexpected and overwhelming. The old wolf encircled his shoulders and pulled him close; it was the grip of a man assuring himself that the person in his arms was _there_ and _whole._ A family member returned to him when he had been fearful they would not. Warm, and firm in its love; there was even a palm rub on the back thrown in for good measure. Jaskier couldn’t stem the tears that fell, and when the Witcher held him by the biceps, brow furrowed, he tried to stutter through an apology, because crying in front of Vesemir was mortifying. “I - I’m sorry, I just - I’ve had a lot _on_ recently.” He spluttered, lamely. Not even his _own father_ had ever embraced him like that. 

“Son, never apologise for feelin’ things. If you want to cry, then cry, no weakness in it,” Vesemir patted him on the shoulder and then swept that hand around the room. “They assured me it was just as you left it. I even asked them to dig an instrument out of their music department for you, since yours is still at Kaer Morhen. Didn’t go as far as t’ sort any clothing, figured you’d want to do that yourself.” He stood by the door then as each of his three sons walked past him, glancing them up and down in quick appraisal. All accounted for. Injuries sustained were minor, or non-existent.

Jaskier flopped into the armchair next to the empty fireplace. “I have no idea how you convinced them to host me, but I am eternally grateful.” The journey from Brokilon to Oxenfurt had been slightly more manageable than the first stretch of the trek, but Jaskier was still tired and sore. His dreams were beginning to settle into a predictable cycle; restful and settled at the beginning, but dark and disturbing in the early hours of the morning when the world was at its most silent. That small period before the birds started singing, when even the wind seemed to hold its breath and the darkness clung on with weakening claws. _The silence was too much._

Lambert dumped his bags, shed his sword belts and hurled himself onto the bed, arms and legs spread-eagle. “Me and the bard get the bed. Rest of you plebs can spoon on the floor.” 

Vesemir growled and smacked Lambert’s feet, a flick of the hand commanding him to remove his filthy self from the comforter and blankets; the offending Witcher skulked off the bed with a quiet grumble and flopped onto the floor at the foot of it instead. “We have two rooms either side for as long as we need ‘em. Once I pointed out to the Dean that Dijkstra would be quite upset if he found out he’d been reading through the Service’s mail before passing it on, he became very accommodatin’.”

“Oh, Dijkstra,” Jaskier rubbed his hands into his eyes and slumped forwards. “That debrief is going to be staggeringly awful.” Eskel squeezed his shoulder, and Jaskier tilted into the contact until that hand was stroking through his hair. It would take a couple of days for news of Jaskier’s return to reach Tretegor, and then a couple more days for Dijkstra to decide it was worth his time to travel all this way to give Jaskier a hiding. _Future_ Jaskier could handle that; _present_ Jaskier just wanted a stiff drink and to disappear under that blanket over there.

“We’ll go with you.” Eskel’s other hand swept vaguely around the room, and the other three all nodded their agreement. Four Witchers standing at Jaskier’s shoulders would give even Dijkstra pause for thought.

“No, no. It’s fine. I’ve dealt with him enough to know how to… _deal_ with his temper tantrums. He’ll swear, threaten to have my balls chopped off, be generally grotesque, and then ask me to run him another errand. Let’s get settled and I’ll sort through that massive pile of letters.”

***

It was late on the second day and Jaskier summoned a bath. The Witchers had, predictably, found the bathhouse straight away and indulged themselves on the first evening, but Jaskier had spent his time either sleeping or reading dispatches. He felt better. More limber and alert. _No lasting damage of the physical kind._ So it was time to wash away the last remnants of his ordeal.

As the sun set, Lambert grew bored of being inside and headed off in search of a drink and some poor idiots to play cards with, Vesemir excused himself to one of the adjoining rooms, Geralt headed out to buy some supplies with his remaining coin and Jaskier summoned one of the university porters from the corridor. The suggestion that he should visit the bathhouse instead was met with a deep scowl, and the lad skittered off to retrieve the requested basin and water. 

Slipping into the bath, Jaskier felt something between overwhelming relief and cramping pain. The ache in his muscles spasmed and worsened briefly before it dissolved like the many salts and scents he had dumped into the water; the shock of comfort followed by sweet euphoria. He bent his knees so that he could sink right into the neck. His head fell back against the rim with a dull thud, his eyes drooped closed, and his arms lifted to hang over the edge to keep him at least semi-afloat. At this rate he was going to fall asleep and drown. All the Witchers’ hard work wasted. He chuckled quietly. Survive a Nilfgaardian interrogator, only to be claimed by pleasant smelling bath salts and foamy bubbles. _Definitely the way to go._

Jaskier could hardly languish in the hot water for long though, because there was an equally delectable treat sprawled out on the bed reading a treatise on Skelligen literature - gods above, _with legitimate interest -_ already shirtless and ready to be set upon. So he quickly ran the washcloth over every inch of skin, checked his teeth in the mirror and ruffled his hair until it was at least mostly dry, and sidled his way on over. He paused briefly to root around in Eskel’s pack for a familiar glass jar. Eskel knew he was on the prowl, but always allowed him the illusion of stealth, especially when he was treading _really_ softly. Well, until, “You’re practically panting.” The rustle of a turning page.

“Can I really be blamed if the mere sight of you takes my breath away?” Jaskier crawled onto the foot of the bed and ran his palms firmly up the inside of Eskel’s thighs, the material of his trousers bunching under the heels of his hands. He really didn’t have the patience for the ceremony of drawn out foreplay. He wanted to _feel_ his lover against every inch of his skin, because only that passionate heat would chase away the bite of rope and the endless cold of isolation. 

Apparently intent on finishing his chapter, Eskel tucked a hand behind his head, carefully managing his expression into one of studious indifference. Jaskier pouted, but would not be deterred from his mission. He straddled Eskel’s thighs, fingers tapping over his navel and then hooking under the ties of his trousers. “Tell me what you’re reading about.”

“How one of the main themes in Skelligen literature is to both critique and celebrate the danger and glamour of a masculine warrior society,” he narrowed his eyes; it was becoming difficult to concentrate as Jaskier’s slender fingers were now tracing lightly over his groin, “how violent deeds are portrayed through a dual lens.”

“Mmhm, tell me about this dual lens,” Jaskier shuffled a little higher, his touches still featherlight as he watched Eskel fill out, smooth skin flushing a darker red and straining against the remaining confines of material pinning it down.

“On the one hand, violence is presented as a means to win honour and glory but,” he paused, and swallowed as Jaskier tugged his trousers further apart and freed his cock, forefinger and thumb teasing over the head, “also how it can cause terrible _har--._ ” Jaskier’s tongue worked delicately across the slit, and suddenly Eskel couldn’t keep up the pretence. 

The book flopped closed as he cast it aside, reached down to take Jaskier by the chin and draw him up for a kiss. Eskel lapped the seam of soft lips, quirked as they were in a mischievous smile of triumph, and then pressed inside to worship that wicked tongue that shattered his concentration so easily. He shuffled backwards out of his trousers and drew the bard with him until he was propped against the headboard with lithe thighs splayed across his lap. Jaskier was content to lavish possessive, biting kisses across his neck and shoulders, and Eskel dropped his hands to the pert ass that rubbed down insistently against the hardness of his erection, heels and fingers gripping and kneading alternately. 

Jaskier was so engrossed in consuming as much of Eskel’s skin as he could in between breathy pants, that he missed the door opening at his back, and the lock sliding softly home. The new arrival locked eyes with Eskel as he walked languidly to the foot of the bed, gaze trailing down Jaskier’s arched spine to the purple head of Eskel’s cock at the bottom of his cleft. 

Rutting down with a soft moan of need, Jaskier sat back and rolled his eyes up over Eskel’s chest to his face, only to realise his attention was focused on a point over his shoulder. _Lambert._ Jaskier smirked and turned, only for his eyes to widen when _Geralt of-fucking-Rivia_ gazed passively back, his pupils big and damp lips parted. 

_Well, fuck._

“Mmm, that’s the idea.” Geralt murmured wryly, because Jaskier must have said it _out loud._ The sound of that deep voice, thick with desire, near stopped his heart, and Jaskier’s gaze followed the line started by the open neckline of Geralt’s shirt to the, quite frankly, criminally large bulge in the front of his trousers. “Thoughts?”

“Y - yes, please,” Jaskier blurted out, turning back to Eskel who had _clearly_ made his decision as soon as Geralt stepped into the damn room, because he was watching him now with a deep hunger that made his eyes dark.

“Turn and face him,” Eskel growled his order, and Jaskier complied, completely graceless in his eagerness. Eskel shifted him further forward and raised up onto his knees, pulling Jaskier back until their bodies were flush and his thighs were spread wide over Eskel’s lap. Eskel rested his lips to Jaskier’s shoulder, but addressed Geralt with those dark eyes as the first tie of his shirt came undone, “Do it slowly. He likes that.”

“I hate you.” Jaskier whispered, breathless and not meaning a single word, because watching Geralt slowly pluck open the buckle of his sword belt and cast it aside was the brand of torture he _lived_ for. Geralt’s torso writhed in a little serpentine flex as he pulled his shirt over his head, and Jaskier couldn’t help the gasp of anticipation. He’d seen that body so many times; patched it up, soothed it and even bathed it once or twice when Geralt couldn’t due to an injury. Probably knew the location and cause of most of the scars. But the knowledge that he was about to touch every line and curve in a far less _platonic_ way recast it in a new, awe-inspiring light. 

Eskel’s hands were stroking up and down the outside of his thighs, his lips hot against the back of his neck and across his shoulders and Jaskier had to grip those tender fingers against his skin, because if they built him into any more of a fervour then he was going to last all of five seconds. It felt like an eternity before Geralt kicked his trousers away and the mattress dipped under his weight. And then suddenly he was there. In Jaskier’s space - his heat, his deep, dizzying scent - and Jaskier’s brain forgot every piece of carnal experience it had like the _traitorous little shit_ it was. He stared like a wide-eyed maid up into Geralt’s face, jaw slack. The Witcher knelt so close, his knees touching Eskel’s so that Jaskier could feel the brush of their skin when they inhaled. Geralt was just watching Jaskier’s face, his hands still on his thighs. “Would you like to tou--?”

“ _Geralt_ , over two decades, just let me stare for _one_ moment,” Jaskier was surprised by the growl at the base of his tone, and he damn well _looked_ his fill. From angular stubbled jaw that he could now kiss and bite, to broad shoulders and thick biceps he could grip, barreled chest and toned abdomen and the gorgeous curve of his cock, thick and full as it stood over it. Travelling together, they had seen each other _in full glory_ without actually doing anything about it more times than Jaskier cared to count - _torturous, harrowing times -_ so Geralt’s size wasn’t so much a surprise as a _very_ pleasant reminder. Jaskier puffed his cheeks out, licked his lips and returned his eyes to Geralt’s once more. “Alright. Done.” He reached forward to run a hand through that mane of white and haul Geralt forward. 

_Haul_ was such an odd word to use, because one did not _haul_ a Witcher anywhere they did not wish to go, so when Geralt fell so easily into the fierce kiss that waited for him, it only served to spur Jaskier’s confidence. _Geralt wanted this as much as he did._ His tongue demanded, brushing into Geralt’s mouth to taste the remnants of sweet mead and something so inherently, intoxicatingly _Geralt_ that Jaskier felt almost drunk by the time he pulled away.

Jaskier could feel Geralt’s hand between his thighs, stroking over Eskel’s erection and brushing over Jaskier’s skin in passing, tantalising and brief, but enough to make him shake. The Witcher behind him let out a deep, breathy moan and Jaskier suddenly realised his _two_ decades _paled_ in comparison to Eskel’s _eight._ He grinned and looked down his chest to where Geralt’s hand disappeared beneath him, lower lip between his teeth, listening to Eskel’s composure crumble.

“Want to watch you come undone on, Eskel. Can you do that for me?” Geralt purred into his ear, and Jaskier managed a breathy ‘yes’ as he pressed his face to the side of Geralt’s neck, “Going to get you ready for him.” The pop of a jar lid preceded the smooth glide of slick fingers pushing over his perineum and Jaskier latched onto the two broad shoulders in front of him. His leaking cock brushed over Geralt’s forearm as he canted his hips into the touch, moaning as thick fingers circled, teasing him open. Geralt moved slowly, savouring the stretch of Jaskier’s body, and the bard could feel low rumbles of appreciation vibrating under his hands.

Geralt shifted his hand, and guided the head of Eskel's cock to Jaskier's hole, pulling the bard forward as Eskel tilted his hips to accommodate. His fingers stayed there even as Eskel pushed inside, barely touching until Eskel was sheathed almost to the hilt, and then they traced the line of Jaskier's stretched rim. "Fuck Eskel, that-- fuck, _fuck._ " Jaskier reached back and gripped whatever part of Eskel he could find, the edge of his waist, and arched into the slow rock of his hips. 

A contented 'hmm' from Geralt as he explored the joining of his two lovers, listening to Eskel's shuddering pants as it tested his control, and Jaskier's keen whines. He sat back, and those slick fingers wrapped Jaskier's cock, thumb circling gently over his frenulum and then smearing through the precum leaking liberally from his head. "Gunna come for us, little lark." 

"Y-yes, and if you keep talking t-to me like that, soon, too soon." Jaskier gasped as Eskel gripped his hips and began to move him effortlessly in rhythm with his thrusts. Geralt shuffled closer, lining his own cock up against Jaskier in his palm. The reclaiming of that nickname had set his mind on fire, and any witticisms he had primed and ready dissipated in the heat of the two men pressing in on him. "F-fuck Geralt."

"Tell me how Eskel feels." Geralt gripped firmly, rocking his hips in a slow rut as Jaskier mouthed needy kisses against his neck. Watching Eskel as he listened to Jaskier gasp and pant, Geralt admired the flare of his pupils and the sweat beading across his skin from the heat of his lust. He was being gentle because Jaskier was still recovering, but Geralt could tell by the quiver over his shoulders and arms that the restraint was torture.

"So good - fuck - he always feels so good - so big - f-fuck - a-ahh." _Of course_ , Geralt wanted him to talk _now_. After years of demanding silence, he wanted to hear Jaskier wax lyrical about the sheer glory of what was happening in his ass. When Jaskier could feel Eskel so deep he was sure his lungs were having to move aside, and the heat of Geralt’s cock gliding across his within the grip of his broad palm. _Of course._ If Jaskier could muster a single coherent sentence, he’d point out the irony, but Eskel had found his angle and _knew it_ because his pace increased and Jaskier couldn’t find even broken words now. 

But Geralt wasn’t finished. As the sweat soaked Jaskier’s hair to his forehead and his eyes hazed over, he wanted to _hear_ the descent. He could feel the bard was close, his length harder and quivering with each firm glide. “What does he taste like?”

“Fff - nnggh - ahh.”

“Hmm,” Geralt smirked, admiring parted lips, wet and full still from their kiss. “Show me what you do to him.” He wasn’t quite ready to let go of Jaskier’s cock, so slipped two fingers between Jaskier’s lips. The bard moaned, his eyes rolling back, as he sucked them to the back of his throat, tongue swirling beneath the knuckle and through the middle when Geralt scissored them apart, adding a third.

Jaskier’s cry of release muffled by the fingers in his mouth, he tried to hunch over as he spilled over Geralt’s hand. A strong arm encircled him from behind and kept him upright, Eskel still pushing deep through the spasm of Jaskier’s body around him. Jaskier slumped forward to Geralt’s chest, his lips pressed over the chain of his medallion as that palm worked through his seed; despite the overwhelming hypersensitivity, he had about enough self awareness to grin when Geralt grunted and growled, the heat of his spend splashing over his stomach. Eskel’s frantic motions slowed, replaced instead by the pulsing heat of his climax as he ground himself deep, moaning into Jaskier’s shoulder.

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s jaw, fingers still slick with saliva, and kept him steady for an impossibly tender kiss that the bard chased after when Geralt moved away. He was vaguely aware of flopping forward onto the mattress in an undignified heap and then being moved onto his back with a nest of pillows behind him, but it took a short while for all of his senses to return. Lukewarm water dripped onto his skin as Eskel cleaned him, mopping the saliva and sweat from his face, and then the come from his stomach and thighs. 

Two solid bodies settled down either side and Jaskier did a bit of kneading, wriggling and snuggling to enjoy the sensation of warmth and comfort, because he _deserved it_ , damn it. He ended up half sprawled over both face down, his upper half on Eskel’s chest and one leg cocked possessively over Geralt’s thighs. It might be considered awkward, but this was his position and he would go down with it. A heavy, warm euphoria settled over all three of them, intoxicated by the proximity of each other.

Geralt tucked an arm behind his head with a satisfied sigh, his finger circling idly on Jaskier’s leg through the blanket. The quiet was comfortable, sated, and when he spoke his tone stayed soft to preserve the peace, “I have a question that’s been bothering me for a while.”

Eskel’s head lolled to the side, fingers stilling where they were slowly combing through Jaskier’s hair. “Mm?”

“What’s with Lambert’s collar?”

***

The sun would be up in a few hours and Lambert stumbled his way down the corridor. The first room he walked into was _definitely not_ the right one, because he saw a lot of hairy, wrinkly ass poking out from the comforter and quickly closed the door. “No, no, no. Not even _Vesemir_ has an ass like that…”

 _Drunk. Too drunk._

It was that fucking Cat. Every time he turned up, they drank a tavern empty, added in some White Gull for good measure, then the innkeeper brought out his _special_ brew from the back, and it had all ended up… well, they ended _up._ His brain couldn’t quite process _everything._

Lambert walked into a suit of armour, apologised to it with his hands up, and replaced the halberd that had fallen from its gauntlets. “There ya’ go, mate.” He glanced down the two intersecting halls. “Don’t ‘spose you c--, don’ worry, s’this one.” He strolled his way down to the correct door, rested a hand on the handle and then promptly hit a solid obstruction when the lock stopped him. “S’locked.” He informed the empty corridor.

 _Could kick it down. Would be easy._ He ran gloved hands over the rather brittle wood. _No. Upset Jaskier. Delicate flower. Weed. Buttercups were weeds. Weeds could be toxic and were difficult to kill. Our weed. Pretty weed. Fuck. Focus._

Lambert considered his options, which took a good ten minutes of staring into space. This wouldn’t last that long. His metabolism was already powering through the ale and spirits, the only thing slowing it down was the White Gull. _Brutal stuff._

“Window!” He lifted a hand in victory and left the corridor to head back down the stairs. 

It was a second floor room, and the drainpipe that ran up only a single window away was sturdy enough to take his weight. Lambert bounced up and down on the balls of his feet and took a running jump. The clamber was a little more difficult when his head began to swim with sudden motion, but he made it across to the first window sill. “Just… strafe across…” He reached out with his left arm first and swung down, slowly edging each hand across until he reached the correct window. If it wasn’t open, he was smashing through it, ‘cause fuck sleeping by himself. 

It was open. Lambert hauled himself up and fell gracelessly into the room. The floor was comfortable enough, he could smell the familiar scents of his family, and so he promptly fell asleep. Unconscious. Definitely unconscious.

Geralt heaved a sigh. “Blanket?”

“Top left in the cupboard.” Jaskier had rolled over and both he and Eskel were watching Lambert with open affection as he began to snore softly.

Geralt removed Lambert’s boots and the harder bits of his armour, tucked the cover around him and stuffed a throw pillow behind his head for good measure. “You never fucking change.”


	31. Good Boy (E)

There were many positives to having his Witchers with him at the university. For one, waking up to Geralt and Eskel making love would _never_ get old. The first time Jaskier tried to pretend to be asleep so he wouldn’t break the magic, because he _knew_ they would instantly pull him over. _Just a moment to watch_. So he stayed curled up with the blanket tucked over his head, despite the nagging feeling of claustrophobia, and only allowed his eyes to peek out. 

Geralt sat across Eskel’s lap, rocking his hips in slow, indulgent movements that would allow him to feel every inch of Eskel inside him, but not disturb the sleeping bard next to them. His skin glistened with sweat from the exertion of staying under control and Jaskier followed a single bead in its progress down his back, over flexing muscle and an arched spine, until it disappeared from sight. Eskel was enraptured, his lips parted and eyes wide as they watched the bliss play out over Geralt’s face, always searching for his eyes. 

He allowed Geralt every ounce of control at first, perhaps worried that he would spook, or the ‘illusion’ would shatter. But the moment the first breathless _“Eskel…”_ rolled over Geralt’s lips, his fingers clutching at the nape of his neck and one broad shoulder, Eskel reached up to knot a hand in his medallion and pull him down for a fierce, consuming kiss. His other hand gripped a narrow hip to pull their bodies flush. Geralt gasped and moaned, surrendering all agency as he slumped forward, unable to marshal his body to obey. Eskel spotted the two blue eyes that peeked out from the cover, smirked, and rolled Geralt onto his back with impressive dexterity. When he pushed his hips forward, Geralt arched and pulled Eskel's face to his chest, fingers snared in his hair. “Say my name again, Geralt.” Geralt said it a lot. Much, _much_ louder. _No -_ that would never get old.

Vesemir was an angel. He followed up on any orders that Jaskier made for clothes, food and resources, checked in on him regularly and even began making new connections with some of the older professors. They appreciated the experience that came with his advanced years, and he spent many hours with the alchemy and astrology departments in their workshops.

 _Then_ there were slightly _less_ positive parts.

Like having to explain to two Witchers that striding purposefully down the corridors with ‘resting Witcher face’, fully armed and fierce, was scaring the students to the point they were now missing lectures. “Try not to look so serious, and… deadly.” Jaskier tried to be gentle, but realised it was a lost cause when Geralt squinted and ‘hmm’d, while Eskel looked confusedly apologetic. Jaskier rubbed his eyes, “We’ll work on it.”

_And Lambert._

Jaskier loved Lambert dearly, but he was clearly a man used to living on his own, in the wild, without the irritation of propriety and domesticity to hold him down. The Dean tried to be diplomatic, perhaps suggesting that the stairs were an easier way to ascend floors rather than climbing up a statue in the courtyard and leaping over to the balcony, that some of the students were seriously ill after brewing his moonshine recipe and could he _please_ put some clothes on when walking from the bathhouses to his quarters. It was this final point that Jaskier had to talk to Lambert about this morning as he waited in their room. Because, if we are honest dear reader, the _third_ room allocated to them hadn’t been used _at all_ since their arrival. 

The door swung open and Jaskier looked up from the dispatch in his hand. Predictably, Lambert wasn’t wearing a single thread of clothing after his bath, and was currently scrubbing a towel over his hair to dry it. _Oh, but he was so beautifully made, I mean lo--,_ no, focus. Jaskier sucked in a breath, “Lambert, dear heart. I need you to start covering yourself up on the way to and from the bathhouse. You’re scandalising… well, everyone but me, quite frankly.” _And Eskel._ Who enjoyed the view. Geralt didn’t comment, Vesemir had yet to get involved.

“I’ve got a towel, haven’t I?” He indicated the towel in his hand. The one he had been using on his entire walk to dry his hair and wipe water from his face, rather than wrapping it about his waist. “Ahh, they’re such fucking hypocrites. You know one of those old fuckers groped me in the bath three days ago? Thought I wouldn’t notice, or maybe be shy or some shit. Think he was surprised by the handful he got - was thinking of that time _we_ , you know, _that time_ \- and then I looked at him and he damn near had a heart attack.” Lambert smirked, hair now tousled and sticking up in all directions, he chucked the towel over the back of a chair. “Bet he’s the same dirty old fuck that’s complaining now. Kind that lets his students earn a little extra credit.” He lifted his fist to his face and nudged his tongue into his cheek to illustrate his point. “Where’re the others?”

Jaskier was listening. He definitely was. He just couldn’t take his eyes off how shapely Lambert’s legs were as he walked across the room, or how his back flared out in a perfect triangle and tapered down to a narrow waist and beautifully sculpted rear end. There was only one way this morning was going to end. “Eskel wanted to attend a lecture on one of his favourite poets, Geralt and Vesemir went out for a little father-son chat on the horses, and… I’m here.” Dispatch aside, he approached slowly, knowing full well Lambert could both hear and smell him. “Any plans?” 

“Need to visit the blacksmith f--,” Lambert stopped rooting through his bag and lifted his head, tilting it back slightly as he scented the air. Jaskier was close, he knew that, and looked down from the corner of his eyes as warm, elegant hands slid across his rear, gripping and kneading. He was also aroused, and it only became more potent now that he was touching the object of his desire. “Did you have somethin’ else in mind?”

“Well, you made me a promise last week, and I know you to be a man of your word, so I thought I would give you an opportunity to fulfill it.” Jaskier leaned his forehead to Lambert’s back, thumb drifting with a feather light touch down the sensitive skin at the very top of his thigh. “Don’t suppose you brought your collar with you?”

Lambert smirked. “You wanna tie me up, buttercup?” He wasn’t facing Jaskier, so he didn’t have to hide how his pupils blew wide and his mouth went dry at the proposition. The collar was safely tucked away at Kaer Morhen in his room. There was no way he would risk _losing_ it. Besides, the likelihood of meeting Eskel and Jaskier on the Path were slim if everyone was patrolling their usual grounds. 

“Oh, my love. I don’t need to tie you up to make you float. Trust me. Now, are you going to be a good boy and do exactly what I tell you to?”

The Witcher turned to face him, and Jaskier could see the consideration pass over his face; Eskel wasn’t here, so he was placing himself purely in Jaskier’s hands. There was no collar to separate between the two parts of himself; he wouldn’t have that act of placing it on as defined beginning, and then end. It was a big ask. Jaskier knew it was, and half expected him to decline, but then, almost softly, “Usual word?”

“Yes, usual word,” Jaskier reached forward and scratched his fingers through the thick stubble on the side of Lambert’s jaw. The Witcher tilted his head into it, and then raised his eyebrows, hands spread. Jaskier left briefly to lock the door; it would help Lambert relax if he wasn’t worried about Geralt or Vesemir walking in, the latter would knock, but the first most definitely wouldn’t.

“Bend down. Touch your toes. Feet shoulder width apart.” Jaskier waited, saw the smirk flutter its way over Lambert’s face before he stretched his arms briefly above his head and then dipped forward, fingertips on the floor. “I have two rules. Firstly, you don’t make a single sound or movement - no whimpers, no moans, no talking - unless I tell you to, or you want to use your safeword. Secondly, you don’t get your release until I give my permission. Do you understand? You may say ‘yes’ or ‘no’.” Jaskier was crouched by Lambert’s head, and so caught the quietly murmured, “Yes.”

“Good boy,” Jaskier reached a hand out and ran his fingers up the nape of Lambert’s neck, ruffling through still damp hair and watching the goosebumps erupt down to his shoulders. And then he removed his touch completely. It was going to be a test of his own restraint as much as Lambert’s obedience, because Witchers could probably stay upside down a lot longer than the average human. 

So, for now, Jaskier sat on the edge of the bed and _admired._ Planning the trajectory of his lips and teeth from afar. It helped that Lambert could _hear_ him - the way his heart beat hard in his chest, the deep pants he moderated carefully - and smell him - his arousal, the expensive lotions he used to care for his skin. All associated with the good times they’d shared. It worked in Jaskier’s favour, because Lambert would _want_ , and that would wear down his composure more quickly.

He started well. Perfectly still. Iron discipline. But Jaskier saw the moment that the niggling feeling of being watched, examined, _seen_ , rather than touched began to boil over. Lambert’s neck and face were flushed with blood and his legs were twitching very minutely, like a horse’s flank. Jaskier rose to his feet and heard the sharp inhalation of breath - still no sound, technically - and approached. He circled, still not touching, knowing full well that Lambert was fighting the urge to turn his neck to follow him; Jaskier saw a flash of rich amber when he looked down. 

“Being so good for me. Staying perfectly still.” Jaskier opened his desk drawer and pulled out a fresh jar of oil - Eskel had to go refill because they were using _far_ too much for a casual supply of it - and stepped up behind Lambert. It was just close enough for the material of his breeches to whisper across the sensitive skin of his ass, a tease of the hardness underneath. A soft kiss to the small of the back made fine hairs stand on end, muscles flex beneath tanned skin, but Lambert remained _still._ Jaskier hid his smile, schooled his face carefully, and then sat down at Lambert’s calves.

His touches were featherlight at first; forefinger and thumb circled over the achilles tendon of his right leg. He pressed harder when he pushed over the tight calf muscle, tense with the stretch of his current position, and watched Lambert’s jaw twitch. The same careful treatment given to the left leg. When he reached the backs of Lambert’s knees, he shifted onto his own; each of his caresses were now followed by a kiss, accented with the graze of his teeth and the lap of his tongue.

“So strong, so beautiful,” he whispered, hot breath bursting across Lambert’s skin. The shake was becoming more prominent, no longer a barely perceptible twitch, but a more persistent tremor. Lambert screwed his eyes shut, because he realised where Jaskier was heading, which was only confirmed when a deep, hungry kiss pressed to the inside of his thigh, just where it met the curve of his ass.

“M-m,” Lambert bit it back, but Jaskier stopped immediately, mouth and hands pulled away. The Witcher’s lips were still formed in the first letter, and his limbs were now beginning to shake in earnest from the tension of the position and the thought of…

“Lambert. Do you want to continue? Either yes, or your safeword.” Unlike Eskel, he could not scent fear or panic in the air, but he was more than experienced enough to recognise the beginnings of distress in a lover. 

“Yes.”

Jaskier circled a hand softly on Lambert's thigh, fingertips fluttering over the fine dusting of hair, and considered those amber eyes carefully. Needed to loosen the restrictions a little to help him focus on this act of submission. "I want to hear you now, all other rules still apply. Are we clear? Yes or no."

"Yes." Sweat beading on his chest and face, Lambert tensed his back and abdominals to keep his core still, hoping his limbs would follow. No one had ever _done_ this. I mean, who would want to? But… Jaskier was… those hands, and… " _Fuck._ " A desperate whimper as Jaskier ran his tongue across the tender skin just on the inside of his cleft. Teasing.

"Legs a bit further apart, want you to be fully open to me," Jaskier kept his mouth close, words prickling across sensitive skin and settling in Lambert’s groin. _Open to me. Fuck_. Lambert shuffled his heels further apart and whimpered again at the almost chaste flick of the tongue across the curve of his ass. "Such a good boy. Look how beautiful you are. So perfect for me. Going to make you feel really good." 

Jaskier took the firm globes of his ass in two hands and kneaded them apart; he started low, pressing the flat of his tongue firmly against his perineum, before sweeping up to kiss Lambert’s entrance, deeply and passionately. If he was under any illusion that Jaskier found this part of him distasteful, that would now be completely shattered. Jaskier swirled and dipped his tongue until Lambert’s thighs were shaking and whimpering pants were accompanied by quiet moans. He had to shift his hands to hold Lambert’s hips still as they swayed away, but Jaskier could see a dark spot on the floorboards where precum had dripped free from the head of Lambert’s cock and his toes were curling in delight despite the command not to move.

“J - Jaskier, please - I need -.”

Another long, slow lick across Lambert’s fluttering hole, and Jaskier sat back. “Such a good boy, you’ve done so well. Not yet though. Stand up slowly, lay on the bed on your front, wrists crossed above your head.” _Slowly_ because he wasn’t sure whether he could keep Lambert up if he fainted from a head rush, but the Witcher was composed enough to take his time, even if he did stagger like a newborn fawn as he approached the bed. The bard bit back his chuckle and guided Lambert onto his knees, nudging his legs apart until he was beautifully exposed again, back arched and wrists crossed above his head. 

Slick fingers circled around Lambert’s entrance, and Jaskier watched the tense pleasure ripple its way through Lambert’s back and heard it spill out of his mouth in a deep moan, muffled by the comforter as he buried his face. He was trying desperately not to rock back, his thighs were quivering and Jaskier could see the white knuckle grip he held on his own wrists. His walls clenched eagerly as Jaskier slipped a finger inside, pressing outwards and quickly following with a second, wanting Lambert to feel the stretch, “So tight, so keen. You really want my cock, don’t you? Tell me, Lambert. Tell me what you want.”

“Yes - please - c-c’mon, I need -.”

“Mm. Say it. Say you want my cock in you. Want to come with me buried inside.”

“Jaskier,” it was an incredulous whine, but he mumbled after a brief hesitation, “I want - want your cock in me, please, I need -.” 

Jaskier pressed a third finger in and spread them, listening to the sweet melody of Lambert’s tortured pleasure, watching his body twitch and spasm as his control fought with his need for release. He plucked open the fastenings to his breeches and finally eased his own painfully hard erection free. Fingers gently removed to wipe the remaining oil down his length, he tugged Lambert a little further back and eased his head inside his rim, just enough for the flare to catch behind the ring of muscle. Lambert shuddered and keened, his fingers clawing in the blankets beneath his palms and shoulders quaking. 

“Look at you, it feels good, doesn’t it? Need you to relax for me, sweet thing.” Jaskier’s voice was taut as Lambert’s body seized around him with an almost uncomfortable level of tightness; no wonder Eskel had looked so wrecked by the end. He circled gentle fingers over the small of Lambert’s back and when his body eased Jaskier slid deeper. “Good, such a good boy, taking all of me like this.” His hips pressed flush to Lambert’s ass and he allowed his head to fall back, relishing the tight heat, the hungry way Lambert’s body clenched around him. 

“‘Kier, need - please - f-fuck.” Lambert panted, desperate to touch himself; the pressure was almost painful, but there was a warped pleasure in resisting. Doing as he was told, shedding even the responsibility of his own body. It was that razorwire of sensation that he walked as Jaskier began to roll his hips. Not the furious, soul-shattering fuck that Eskel had given him - _so fucking good_ \- but it was just as consuming. 

A deep warmth spread through his body, and he moaned without reservation as each of Jaskier’s deep thrusts stoked the heat. There was no controlling the frantic shudder of his body, and it just made the bard praise him more. Dizzying. Lambert lost track of time. The only things that existed were Jaskier’s voice and the slow, deep burn of the cock inside him, rubbing over every nerve-ending and shredding his body and mind to glorious pieces.

The wrap of slender fingers around his cock forced a cry from his mouth; he almost begged for it to stop. There was no way he was going to be able to resist. And then three words broke through the haze, “Come for me.” And Lambert did. He had no choice in it. Jaskier had control over every part of him, and his body responded instantly. The orgasm coiled at the base of his spine and unfurled through him like a warm tide, blanketing his consciousness in heated euphoria that only intensified when he felt Jaskier pulsing inside him in response, filling him up and taking ownership. The world faded into the obscure, and Lambert sunk into the now familiar haze between sleep and awake; a heady dreamscape where he was weightless and disembodied. 

Somehow Jaskier managed to convince him to crawl up the bed, limbs moving on auto-pilot. A dry cloth cleaned away the majority of the mess, but some vague voice in the back of his head moaned about needing another bath. _Fuck off._ He coiled around Jaskier, head on his chest and one arm wrapped around his waist, because he was warm and _safe_ , and he allowed that deep, rumbling purr nudging at the back of his chest to spread through his entire body.

Jaskier stroked his hand through Lambert’s hair where it splashed out over his chest. It was getting long. He’d probably visit the barbers before he went back to the Path. Or try and cut it himself. _Probably the latter._ Jaskier smiled, fingers circling lower to the back of his neck. They might have laid there for hours, the sun had certainly shifted across the sky by the time he sensed a greater level of alertness in the man sprawled over him. “May I ask you a question?”

“Mm, even if I said no you still would.” Lambert turned his face down into Jaskier’s doublet and huffed.

“True,” the bard grinned, and then softened his tone. “Why were you so nervous earlier? You were freshly clean, and you know I would never hurt you.”

A quiet grunt and bunching of the shoulders. Jaskier was certain he wouldn’t get an answer, but then the tension eased. “S’just… not something I thought someone would want to do to me. Didn’t want you to… be disgusted, or… it’s quite… you know...” _Urgh, words._

“You could never disgust me. I find you staggeringly beautiful,” Jaskier met the two amber eyes that blinked up at him as Lambert tilted his head, allowing him to see the honesty in his own. “Is it just Eskel and I then? Or are there others?” No one well-practiced had an ass that tight and unrelenting. Jaskier was trying to be polite.

“Yeah. Don’t really trust men,” he tilted his head away. “And most women smell of fear, and I can’t… that’s… it’s a boner killer. No matter how gentle you are, or… polite, they just… they can’t see past the eyes and the medallion.”

“And you end up in a brawl every time you visit a brothel.”

“How’d you--? _Eskel._ ” Growled.

“He loves you very much. He’s proud of you. Every part of you.”

A long moment of silence followed and Lambert shifted on the bed. Jaskier could practically hear the whir of thoughts inside his head. And then, “Yeah, well… guess I might, y’know…” A sniff. “...love him too, maybe.” 

“That sounded… painful. Beautiful. But painful.”

“Not all of us can pull a string of poetry out our backsides at short notice.”

“Darling, your backside _is_ poetry.”

Jaskier laughed heartily through the small assault of growling kisses, nips and tickling he received in retribution.


	32. For the Dancing and the Dreaming

Eskel decided to attend the lecture only the day before. The theme was love; a bit broad, but he knew the poet and just how many different _facets_ of love he had explored while alive. As he sat down in the back and the students filed past him, he began to feel rather out of place. They all looked so fucking _young._ He hid the scars on his face against the palm of his hand, doing his level best to fade into the background. He was trying to do as Jaskier had asked and look less intimidating while he was walking around campus. It worked for the most part. Without his swords and armour, he looked like a particularly well-built farmhand.

The professor blustered in about ten minutes late, so Eskel already had a low opinion of him - _people were paying for this service_ \- and when he opened his mouth that opinion just descended further, until it was languishing in the pits of hell with the man of mirrors. The sonnet they were studying discussed the poet’s mistress. The professor was taking it at face value - which was _wrong_ \- the students were writing down notes… and suddenly Eskel’s hand was in the air. 

The professor blinked at him, clearly unused to _engagement_ in his lectures. “Yes?” 

“What you’ve just said is incorrect.” 

A general murmuring of consternation. The professor allowed a slow smirk to unfurl over his lips, because he believed he was looking at one of the great unwashed. “Oh, really, please do enlighten us.”

“You’re saying that the entire sonnet is meant to be a shared joke between men about an ugly mistress, it’s - it’s really not,” he paused, “When he was writing it, we were discussing how poetical representation of women often over-egged their looks. Tried to make them appear _more_ than they were to preen the writer’s ego. Poets often love the _idea_ of their mistress, but not much else.” Eskel decided to leave out the fact that he had proceeded to bend said poet over his desk and make him _forget_ that mistress so entirely while the ink dried, because honest, passionate love was just too much of a turn on to ignore. 

The professor scoffed. “Sorry. _You were discussing?_ This poem was written _fifty_ years ago. The man has been dead for _forty_ of those.” And Eskel looked to be in his late thirties at the most, perhaps early forties on a bad day.

Eskel heaved a sigh and pinched his nose. His eyes, his medallion, none of it would be visible from the front. “I’m a--.”

One of the students had turned around to look at the newcomer who had _dared_ question the academic, and gasped in shock. “He’s a Witcher.” The horror rippled its way around the lecture theatre and Eskel waited for a tense moment for the heckles and the jeers to start flying. They didn’t. Perhaps because they were either too frightened of what he might do, or enthralled by the novelty. Both made him uncomfortable.

“Ahh, you must be one of our current visitors,” the professor folded his arms, chalk held still between finger and thumb. “Do continue. I am _dying_ to hear what a _Witcher_ can tell us about love.”

Eskel clenched his teeth, carefully moderated the stab of frustration in his chest, and continued, “He wanted to write a sonnet that reflected reality. That his mistress was not a goddess on earth, her eyes had not captured the stars, and none of the usual hyperbole. That she had faults, and she couldn’t sing.” He paused. “ _But_ he loved her all the same, _because_ of her faults _._ He loved genuinely, and deeply, the woman he described. He exaggerated purely to make a mockery out of the poets that went so far the other way.” 

Just like Eskel loved Geralt, Jaskier and Lambert. As they were. There was no need to exaggerate their beauty - physical or otherwise - because the reality was perfect. A painful journey with Geralt certainly, not because he could not _love_ every part of him, but because he hadn’t been _allowed_ to. Locked out. Now he had been let back in, he was going to love every part of him as fiercely as he had when they were young. Perhaps that was the reason he so detested this literal - and rather poor - interpretation of _genuine_ love. Perhaps. Or he just wanted to punch that smug asshole in the face. A healthy mixture of both, he’d wager.

The silence in the hall was fairly heavy. The professor was staring at him, and because he was what he was, he levelled an easy stare right back. The students were busy combing back through the poem, and then one tentatively piped up. “I do rather think he’s right. These last two lines make a lot more sense from that perspective - and yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare, as any she belied with false compare.” Eskel indicated the student in question who, having found a modicum of bravery, gave him a smile in acknowledgement.

“Well, then perhaps you would like to enlighten us on his next work.” The professor blustered and held the chalk up in challenge, fully expecting the Witcher to back down and thus to regain some authority; far easier than entering a debate on a work he actually only had passing interest in. Surely this _creature’s_ eloquence was rehearsed, or at least limited to just one poem. 

The Witcher rose to his feet and strode down to the front of the class. “I’d be delighted.”

***

Vesemir drew Scorpion up beside Roach at the top of the hillock. “Well, I’ll give Eskel something, this is a fine beast.” 

“Mm.” Geralt leaned to the side and gave the black stallion a pat on the side of the neck. Roach nosed the other horse with interest, and the Witcher guided her head away with a gentle tilt of the reins. “Maybe next season.” The two Witchers sat at the top of the hill and watched the expanse of the valley below them. Oxenfurt was a distant blemish on the horizon; it would take them a few hours to get back.

“Come on. Talk, boy. You know I didn’t bring you out here just to test your horsemanship,” Vesemir folded his arm across the front of the saddle as he leaned forward. “You’ve been mullin’ something over since you came back from that manor house.”

Geralt cast Vesemir a small, tight-lipped smile and considered the horizon for a moment longer as he organised his thoughts into some coherent, communicable structure. “I’m concerned that when my memory is complete, I’ll lose what I’ve gained.”

“Hmm,” Vesemir leaned back now, lips pressed together in a thoughtful grimace. “You’re worried that you’ll become a different man to the one you are now, and Eskel and Jaskier won’t want you anymore, or somethin’ equally as daft.”

“Are men not just the sum of their experiences? I still don’t remember half of mine.”

Vesemir nodded in agreement. “Aye, that’s true,” he sighed. “However, if I _may_ put too fine a point on it. You’ve now got two rabid partners who would sooner rip you a new ass hole than let you abandon them again,” he cast Geralt a quick smirk. “And you now _know_ what it’s like to have them. Going to let ‘em go that easy?”

“Hmm.” Geralt raised an eyebrow and looked down as Roach adjusted her footing, dropping her head to begin tearing at a rather large tuft of grass, too green and luxurious to go uneaten. “No.” He said finally.

“Right, good, so that brings me to my next point. Didn’t want to bring it up in front of Eskel or Jaskier, because I know their feelings on the matter true enough. Triss has located Yennefer, and perhaps Ciri, although she’s not too sure the cub's stayin' put.”

Geralt looked up suddenly. “Where?”

“Nilfgaard. Seems to be in the company of some Witchers from the School of Viper; one Letho of Gulet and his crew. She’ll probably have some answers about what happened.”

The gravity of the revelation settled on Geralt’s shoulders like a leaden weight. _Nilfgaard._ The one place on the whole Continent that Jaskier could not follow him. Not unless he wanted to end up in another prison cell. “He'll think I'm leaving him behind again. For Yennefer.” He was pretty certain the crack in his voice was created by the pollen, or… _fuck._ His chest hurt. His fucking _eyes_ hurt.

Vesemir hummed. “I think you need to give the lad a bit more credit,” he paused. “Not really a lad anymore, is he? And that’s the point. You need to be honest with him, and Eskel, and yourself. Time for silence is gone, Geralt, my boy. It’s time to say what’s in your head as it stands. No one can argue with that.”

“I’m not even sure what’s in my fucking head.” Geralt growled, rubbing a hand over his eyes and then thumping a fist on his thigh. Fate, destiny, whatever the fuck kept screwing him over, needed to take a running jump off the top of Kaer Morhen.

“Good job you’ve got all of us to help you work it out then, isn’t it? C’mon, let’s head back. Be time for supper by the time we roll up.” 

***

Spring was progressing on and it was time for the Witchers to return to the Path. Vesemir had decided to head back to Kaer Morhen the following morning, and Lambert would head back with him as far as Kaedwen to start his usual circuit. Their final meal together, therefore, was in one of the rooftop gardens the university cultivated to keep a supply of rare plant and flower species. It was Jaskier’s favourite place in Oxenfurt, mainly because it reminded him of Dol Blathanna in full bloom. As it had been when he met Geralt, and then Eskel, for the first time. Strange how destiny played her hand. 

He sat propped up against Geralt’s chest, his lute slung across his lap, as Lambert balanced his way across one of the narrow railings and Eskel and Vesemir arrived with the food and the wine. The bard could sense a tension in Geralt that had been missing in recent months, and so had been sure to glue himself to his side in the same way he had always done in the past when something was amiss. Old habits die hard. Jaskier plucked gently at the strings, occasionally mustering a phrase, but otherwise only to occupy his fingers. “Are you going to talk to me, or am I going to have to bully it out of you?”

“There was a time when that would have been laughable, but these days I’m not so sure.” Geralt murmured, tilting his head into Jaskier’s hair to inhale the sweet scent of the soaps he used. Savouring their last few hours together for the next few months. Because _fuck_ whatever obstacle tried to get in the way of them seeing each other while on the Path.

“Ahh, you are learning quickly.” Jaskier tilted his head back to Geralt’s shoulder so those lips that had been brushing his ear could now settle on the curve of his jaw. “Come on, tell me. It must be bad. You haven’t even touched your mead.” _And he drinks that like it’s bloody water._

“Triss has located Yen,” he spoke softly, as if it would take the edge off, but he could still feel Jaskier tense against him. “She's in Nilfgaard.”

“Ahh.” Jaskier leaned forward, his lute flat on his lap, just in time for Eskel to drop down heavily in front of them, because he’d heard the slant of the conversation and had now lost interest in the food. He said nothing, just waited expectantly.

“She will have answers about what happened. Answers that I don’t think I’m going to discover for myself. No matter how much I meditate or how many artefacts I look at. And Ciri could be with her, I need to check that she’s alright, but I don’t want you to think that I - it’s not that I’m -.” He swallowed the lump in his throat, and then suddenly Jaskier’s hand settled over his, because Jaskier could hear the rawness in his voice and see the discomfort coiled through his shoulders. Geralt was too upset about it to bother even moderating his expression, so it was genuine; one could not survive so many years on the Path with Geralt of Rivia without becoming _fluent_ in him, more or less. The mountain was a little bit of a blip.

“Then you go and you find your memories,” the bard spoke softly, ducking his head in search of Geralt’s eyes and frowning when he found them swimming with uncertainty. “We’ll be right here for you.”

This didn’t seem to appease Geralt, and he dropped his face into his palms, rubbing the heels through his eyes. “If life could give me one blessing,” he muttered it bitterly, “it would allow me to keep you by my side.” He glanced up first to Jaskier, and then to Eskel, his teeth clenched before he looked away again. Looking at them was difficult, because it just made the idea of walking away - even if only for a handful of months - just a little bit too painful. 

It was Eskel’s arms that encircled him first - he hadn’t even seen him move - but they wrapped around his torso and pulled him back until Geralt’s face was tilted to his neck. Jaskier sat in Geralt's lap and leaned against his chest, accepted beneath Eskel’s forearms as part of the embrace. “You’re wintering at Kaer Morhen,” Eskel murmured next to his ear. “And we’re going to spend a week together around Feainn. No arguments. That goes for you too Lambert. Come here.” The Witcher sidled over and took a seat at Eskel’s shoulder, knees drawn to his chest, but Eskel wasn’t having any of his masculine composure, because he reached an arm out and pulled him into the embrace. “We’ll meet in Posada. Agreed?” Midsummer solstice. It would be warm, full of good alcohol and sweet smelling flowers; dancing, singing and long, bright nights where they could lay scattered in meadows of tall grasses. A warm, comforting dream to bisect the grim nightmare of the Path.

There was a rumble of agreement from the other two Witchers, and Jaskier wriggled a little higher up Geralt’s chest to place a kiss on Eskel’s lips. “For the dancing and the dreaming,” he shuffled from Geralt’s lap, placed his lute aside, and crawled on hands and knees to his satchel. Slumped briefly on his front, tongue trapped between his teeth, brow furrowed in concentration, he hummed through the melody as he scratched a few new words into the song. “That’s the final piece.”

Eskel blinked. “What?”

“You’re my muse for more than just basilisks and werewolf kills, dear heart,” he shuffled the papers through and then beckoned Eskel over. The Witcher unfurled himself from Geralt and Lambert, and stared at the sheet music thrust into his hands once Jaskier had scrawled his new title across the top - ‘For the Dancing and the Dreaming.’ Jaskier pointed at three stanzas. “These parts are yours, and these,” he indicated other sections, “are mine. Ready?”

“What - in front of - ?” Eskel indicated the other three with a vague wave of the hand.

“Yes. They already know the contents of your heart and character. It should hardly come as a surprise.”

Jaskier smiled so very brightly, and so very beautifully, that Eskel felt his resistance just crumble away. He scanned over the page once more. Jaskier strummed over the first few chords gently, and indicated with a nod of the head.

Eskel took a breath, and started confidently as Jaskier had shown him. “ _I’ll swim and sail on savage seas, with never a fear of drowning, and gladly ride the waves of life, if you would--_ ,” he glanced at Jaskier with a furrowed brow, “ _marry me, no scorching sun nor freezing cold, will stop me on my journey, if you will promise me your heart_.”

Jaskier leaned back, eyes closed, his tenor able to reach the higher notes for the next part. “ _And love me for eternity, my dearest one, my darling dear, your mighty words astound me, but I’ve no need for mighty deeds, when I feel your arms around me._ ”

Eskel was so enamoured by the dreamy look on the bard’s face, he almost forgot the next section. “ _But I would bring you rings of gold, I’d even sing you poetry -_.”

“Oh, would you?” Jaskier grinned. Lambert slumped onto his back, his grin so big it was hurting his face, because he’d _never_ heard Eskel sing and it was possibly the most _funny,_ but heartwarming shit he’d ever heard.

“ _\- and I would keep you from all harm, if you would stay beside me_.”

“Next bit’s for both,” Jaskier murmured, and he was careful to harmonise with Eskel rather than overpower as they sang together -

> _“I have no use for rings of gold,  
>  I care not for your poetry,  
>  I only want your hand to hold,  
>  I only want you near me,  
>  To love to kiss to sweetly hold,  
>  For the dancing and the dreaming,  
>  Through all life's sorrows and delights,  
>  I'll keep your love beside me.”_

Jaskier rested his palm over the strings and leaned forward to place a kiss on Eskel’s nose. “Perfect,” he turned to look at Geralt, who had possibly the _softest_ expression on his face Jaskier had _ever_ seen him wear. “Geralt. A review, please. Three words or less.”

The Witcher smiled gently, eyebrows quirking as he cast a rather diffident glance to his left, before he met Jaskier’s eyes. “I love it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Those that followed me from Petrichor know the pattern by now! The song is 'For the Dancing and the Dreaming'. The cover I love the most is by The Hound + The Fox feat. Taylor Davis. So go have a listen, 'cause it's beautiful.
> 
> And so we come to the end of the main story, dear hearts. Fear not! You have given me so many prompts, you will be seeing quite a bit more of these characterisations in the future (if that interests you, of course).
> 
> Thank you so much for your comments and feedback. This is the first piece of writing that I've got over 100k, and it's all down to you guys. Much love from the very bottom of my heart.


	33. A Quiet Moment [Art - NSFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quiet moment between Eskel and Lambert.

* * *

**Artwork created by the brilliant Jacen.**  
[nbgeralt](https://nbgeralt.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. 

* * *


	34. Fireside Cuddles [Art - SFW]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s only one man who knows how to tame a feral Lambert. _Well, one man and his bard..._

* * *

**Artwork completed by the brilliant Mara Val.**  
Twitter: [@scalesnart](https://twitter.com/scalesnart)  
[Ningyo Gaaru](https://www.patreon.com/ningyogaaru/posts)

* * *


End file.
